


Falling

by trynathink



Series: be still, my foolish heart [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, But not major characters, F/F, F/M, Fix-It, Good Regulus Black, M/M, Regulus Black Deserves Better, Regulus Black Lives, okay well actually a few people die, please read the first part of this series or this won't make much sense, this is a sequel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-10
Updated: 2020-07-05
Packaged: 2020-07-28 22:20:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 191,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20071525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trynathink/pseuds/trynathink
Summary: She sometimes forgot that she and Regulus were two distinct people, separate from one another. It was hard to tell where one of them ended and the other began; they bled into each. It had been seven years. Of course they had a little of the other in them. Of course it hurt when the other wasn’t there anymore. The separation could have been a day, an hour, a minute, and Grace was sure it would have hurt the same—a cleaver sailing straight through her soul, severing it into two.





	1. Dusk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grace attends a wedding.

“I thought for sure you were going to go crimson and gold,” Grace said, eyeing the crisp black of James’s suit.

“Sod off,” James muttered under his breath, looking thoroughly put-out.

A flash of sympathy passed through Grace. “This looks nice though,” she consoled, backtracking quickly. It was a simple three-piece suit: silky black jacket, slacks, and waistcoat. Around his neck was a dark tie with gold accents. His cufflinks were lilies, something that Sirius had gotten him, no doubt thinking it was very clever. “It looks very sleek. Very nice. The Muggles will like it.”

“Yeah, but—” James faltered, likely trying to figure out how to give his opinion in a way that didn’t make him seem like a petulant toddler. He very quickly decided it wasn’t possible, and simply burst out, “I really did want to go crimson and gold! Mum was going to have it custom made from Twilfitt and Tattings—scarlet dress robes with floral gold inlay. But then Lily’s mum said it wasn’t _traditional_.” He heaved a gigantic sigh, and collapsed amongst a pile of tuxedos meant for his groomsmen. “Merlin, I’m going mad with all these so-called traditions. You know Lily’s shoes are going to be blue? _Blue_, Grace—blue! As though we were both Sorted into Ravenclaw!” His lips twisted into a grimace. “It’s for some sort of old Muggle rhyme—something old, something blue, or some bollocks like that. I don’t understand _why_ a centuries-old Muggle rhyme is dictating my wedding.”

Grace stared at him, wide-eyed. “Er—”

“Who knew Muggles had so many blasted traditions,” he grumbled to himself quietly. “Oh, and don’t even get me started on the flowers. Some idiot’s gone and picked up _violets_! If I ever get my hands on them—”

“I think that was just a mix-up,” Grace interrupted, very much hoping that James would not commit murder on the day of his wedding. “Everything is fine. Sirius is, rather surprisingly, sorting things. And—” she waved her wand, and the color of James’s tie turned from jet-black to deep crimson, “—_that_ will still match, so you can at least have a little of your dream wedding.”

James touched the end of his tie. “If Lily’s mum—”

“Lily’s mum won’t do anything,” she assured. “Now, come on—am I taking you to Lily or what?”

He sprang to his feet in an instant, face bright and sunny and the complete opposite of what it was a mere few seconds ago. “Really?” he said, positively beaming. “I thought you were just kidding. You’re really going to help me?”

She resisted the urge to roll her eyes. “Of course I’m going to help you. Would it really be a Potter wedding if I didn’t sneak you into the bride’s dressing room?” She glanced at him. “Have you got the cloak?”

“Have _I_ got the cloak?” he repeated exasperatedly. From the depths of his pockets, he pulled out a sheer, intricately patterned, and impossibly long bolt of fabric.

Grace stared at him. “Have you really gone and put an Extension Charm on your pockets? What else have you got there?”

James put a hand into his pockets, and shuffled around. Grace faintly heard the chime of bells, what might have been a couple of rocks collide, and a low growl. He winked at her and began to cover himself with the invisibility cloak. “Oh—just a few necessities—”

“If you show magic to the Muggles during the reception, Mum’ll have your head,” Grace said warningly as James vanished from sight.

“Only if she can find my head,” his disembodied voice responded, laughing. “Where is Lily’s room, anyway?”

Grace led him up a flight of stairs. “They haven’t told you?”

James let out a disgruntled sigh. “Of course not. Yet another _tradition_. It’s absolute bollocks, isn’t it? Why is it Lily’s not allowed to see me before the wedding?”

Grace swerved by one of Lily’s bridesmaids, Dorcas Meadowes, who was levitating three bundles of golden wicker chairs. “I dunno,” she told James under her breath, giving Dorcas a slight, uneasy smile as she passed by. “Lily’s mum was saying it was bad luck or something. I didn’t understand much of it.”

“Bad luck?” James repeated shrilly. “Seeing _me_ is bad luck?”

Grace snorted. “Must be. Look at my whole life if you need evidence.”

“_What_—!”

Grace shushed him hurriedly as a few of Lily’s Muggle cousins flounced down the stairs, giggling amongst themselves.

“Hello, Grace!” one of them called out brightly.

“Er—hey—” Grace said, trying very hard to remember the woman’s name.

“Agnes,” James whispered into her ear.

“—Agnes!” Grace finished.

Agnes grinned and waved as she descended down the stairs, followed by the others. Grace led James up slowly, keeping an eye out for anyone else—especially Mum—who might be ruin her smuggling mission. The duo slinked down a narrow hallway, and Grace sighed in relief as she saw no other people. Lily must have sent them away.

“Have you taken your draught?” James asked as they rounded a corner.

Grace had begun a course of Clear-Head Concoctions back around fifth year, when the potion first came out. While it didn’t cure her illness by any means, it did delay the progression of paroxysms by months. Last year, Grace had managed to go through the whole school term with only one paroxysm to show for it. Clear-Head Concoction, her parents had proudly declared back then, was the best thing invented since Fizzing Whizbees.

“Yes, _Mum_,” she drawled.

He fell into the role immediately. “Oh, _darling_,” he cried out, wrapping his arms around, “thank _goodness_! What would we ever _do_ without that wonderful potion—”

“Shove off,” she muttered, feeling for his invisible arms and untangling herself from him. “Thank Merlin you and Lily will be moving out. I’ll finally get some peace and quiet around the house.”

He snorted. “What does that matter? You’re heading back to Hogwarts in less than a week.”

“Only because you procrastinated your own wedding—”

James’s voice turned from amused to irritated in an instant. “Procrastinated? I’ll have you know I dedicated nearly every day after the proposal to planning this wedding. You can’t just pull this all off in one day! The guest list alone took _weeks_—”

“Don’t _talk_ to me about the guest list,” Grace huffed.

The guest list was a touchy topic between the Potter siblings. Grace had wanted to, right off the bat, invite Regulus. She knew he likely wouldn’t be able to get away from Grimmauld Place long enough to stay for the whole event, but she was almost certain he would have been able to pop in and show his face.

James, much to her dismay, had vetoed this idea immediately—because of Sirius. Something about tensions and how uncomfortable it would be and, besides, would Regulus even _like_ a Muggle wedding to begin with? Grace had thought the whole argument was a steaming pile of bollocks. Regulus probably wouldn’t like the Muggle wedding. But neither did Grace, truth be told. Hell—even _James_ had his qualms about the Muggle wedding, but they couldn’t have a full-out, spectacular wizard wedding, as Mum and Dad kept reminding them, what with all the Death Eaters creeping about.

So, a bland Muggle wedding it was. In the middle of nowhere. With most of the guests on the Potter’s side of the family in disguise.

“Oh, you can’t _still_ be mad about that,” James groaned. “That was _months_ ago.”

“I can hold onto a grudge for _years_.”

“Don’t remind me,” he muttered.

“So can you,” Grace pointed out. “Have you ever really gotten over what Snape did to Lily in sixth year?”

“Of course not!” James cried out, and Grace immediately began to regret bringing Snape up at all. The mere mention of that name was enough to send James into an hours-long monologue. “Do you know how many owls he sent Lily after I proposed to her? No less than—”

“Fifty-three,” Grace mouthed with heavy boredom.

“—fifty-three!” James continued wildly. “Merlin—has he got no life? My hand starts to cramp halfway through _one_ letter, and this wretch wrote _fifty_—”

“Wretch?” Grace interrupted, smiling. “Did you just say _wretch_?”

“And what of it?” James sniffed.

“I dunno,” she shrugged. “Just doesn’t seem your style. _Wretch._ Has snogging Lily nonstop finally transferred some of her vocabulary to you?”

“Prat,” James snipped.

“Git,” she shot back almost absentmindedly.

A brief moment of silence settled between the two of them before James asked, “Are you _sure_ Sirius handled those violets—”

“James,” she interrupted, “can you promise me something?” Grace’s voice had dropped into something much softer, much more serious.

“Er…what is it?” His voice was nervous, and Grace was almost certain that he was darting his head about, likely hoping someone better for a ‘serious talk’ would magically spring into existence.

“_Please_ never get a divorce and remarry,” she cried out, throwing her head back. Her voice shifted seamlessly from solemn to exasperated. “Merlin’s beard—if you _ever_ do another wedding again, I’ll convince Mum and Dad to disown you. These past few months have been absolute torture—”

“Don’t _do_ that to me,” James snapped, nudging her sharply with his shoulder. “Godric, I was about to have a heart attack. I thought you were going to tell me you were pregnant or something—”

“_Pregnant?!_” Grace burst. “With _what?_ A _baby?_”

“Obviously a baby—what else?”

“But with _who_?”

“I dunno—some bloke! _That_ was the part I was most worried about. Don’t ever start off like that—” he adopted a higher voice, “—_James, will you promise me something?_”

“What? You can’t keep promises for me?” She couldn’t tell exactly where he was, since he was still under the cloak, but she shot a glare in the general direction of his voice. “What sort of older brother are you?”

“What sort of little sister are you—having me believe you’re about to tell me something life-threatening secret—”

“_Life-threatening_—”

James whipped the cloak off, instantly reappearing. His hair was tousled forward as the fabric slipped over his head. “You know I love nothing more than bantering with you, Grace. But, seriously now, where in Merlin’s name is Lily’s room?” he asked. “Is it even on this continent?”

“Stop being dramatic,” Grace said. She pointed down yet another hallway. “It’s the last room here. I think Lily’s Muggle cousins chose it so you wouldn’t find her.”

“Flipping tradition,” James muttered under his breath. He let out a breath and marched forward. “Alright—let’s go.”

“Hold on,” Grace said, catching up to him. She cast him a side glance. “You never promised me you won’t divorce and—”

He let out a loud, exasperated sigh and said, “I promise you I will never, ever get a divorce, _but_ Lily and I are planning on renewing our vows at some point, which will mean a whole other ceremony—”

Panic gripped Grace’s heart tightly. “What? No, you can’t be serious,” she pleaded. “That’s a joke, right? Tell me that’s a joke, James!”

“Oh, my love’s a joke now, is it?”

“Haven’t I been through _enough_?” Grace groaned. “I’ve got to do this whole thing all over again at some point in the future? Taste cake samples and pick out fabrics and—”

James decided to ignore her small outburst in favor of knocking on Lily’s door. Grace cut herself off and settled glumly by the door, crossing her arms over her chest, and hoping desperately that if James and Lily were going to renew their vows in the future they would choose someone else to help prepare the ceremony. 

From beyond the door, a frustrated voice spoke: “I swear to God, Marlene, if you try to convince me to charm my shoes a different color _one more time_—”

“Er—not Marlene, love,” James called out. He paused a moment, and then added, “But if _Marlene_ thinks you should change your shoes—”

The door swung open, revealing a rosy-faced Lily Evans (soon-to-be Potter). She wasn’t yet in her wedding dress, a magnificent work of delicate white lace and silk, but her hair was finished. Her crimson locks were curled and free-flowing; near her temple, a golden flower was pinned into her hair. Her eyes, brighter than emeralds, shone with joy as she took James in.

“Red and gold!” James burst instantly, pointing at the flower in her hair. “Look—me, too!” He held out the tie Grace had charmed.

Lily’s grin grew wider. “Yeah—I thought it might be a nice touch. But the shoes are still going to be blue. I doubt anyone’ll see it under the dress, though.”

James merely shrugged at the news. “You can’t win them all.”

Lily’s eyes turned onto Grace. “Thanks for bringing him. No one spotted you?”

“Yeah, it was actually pretty easy—”

“Hold on,” James said, glancing between Lily and Grace before settling on the latter. “You only brought me here because Lily asked? I thought you were trying to make me feel better!”

“I was trying to make you feel better,” Grace insisted. “Thankfully, that fell in line with Lily asking me to bring you to her.”

He seemed appeased by this, and turned back to Lily. “Oh, so why—”

“The _violets_!” Lily cried out, brows drawn together in despair. Her sunny expression crumpled in an instant. “Mary told me that some idiot’s gone and brought _violets_!”

“I _know_,” James said, eyes growing wide. He clasped Lily’s hands in his own. “I was just telling Grace this. Who would _do_ such a thing? It doesn’t match the color scheme at all.”

“We had a very specific floral design planned for this,” Lily agreed. “And I ordered from the florists myself two weeks ago. Everything was planned and ready for pick-up. I don’t understand _who_ could have botched that up _so badly_—”

“Alright, alright!” Grace interjected. “We get it—you two hate violets—”

“I wouldn’t say _hate_…” James said.

“But definitely not in my top ten flowers,” Lily said matter-of-factly.

“Oh, _definitely_ not,” James nodded.

Grace resisted the urge to roll her eyes. “Alright, whatever. What you two should really be focusing on is the fact that Sirius has already fixed it, okay? He transfigured them into carnations while Peter distracted your relatives, Lily. Everything is _fine_ now, so can we please stop talking about these bloody violets? Besides, would it _really_ be a big deal if there were some violets smattered amongst the other flowers you two have ordered—”

“Of course—” James began.

Grace shot him a dark glare. “No,” she bit. “It would not be a big deal. The big deal is that you two are finally going to be married, which means that this wedding business will finally be _over_. I can _finally_ get some peace and quiet, maybe even a good night’s sleep, because _you_—” her eyes were narrowed at James, “—won’t have any reason to barge into my room in the middle of the night to discuss fabric swatches!”

Lily stared at Grace for one long moment. “Alright,” she said uneasily, “if the violets are really fine—”

“Yes, the violets are fine!” Grace said, throwing her arms in the air. “The violets, which are no longer violets but _carnations_, are fine! You two—” she swung her finger between James and Lily, “—need to stop worrying about every last detail. It’s been sorted, okay? Why don’t you two go and snog each other for a good bit and release some stress, so this wedding doesn’t turn into a massacre.”

“I’m not going to massacre someone over violets,” James scoffed after a moment.

“I meant,” Grace ground out, “that _I_ will massacre you and—”

“How about we don’t continue discussing the hypothetical massacre?” Lily cut in. She glanced up at James. “I actually did want to talk to you privately. Besides—” she looked about the narrow hallway worriedly, “—you’d better get in here before my mum happens by and spots you.”

“Ah, right,” James said flatly. “We wouldn’t want to break a time-honored tradition, would we?”

“At least _my_ traditions are reasonable,” Lily said with pursed lips. “Your dad had us do that eel eye ritual under the full moon—”

“Alright, I recognize that was incredibly strange,” James granted, “but Mum and Dad were only worried, because _they_ had fertility issues in their marriage, and that ceremony—”

“_Please_ stop talking,” Grace begged. “I will do literally _anything_—” she began pushing them into Lily’s room, “—if you get out of my sight.”

James wheeled around and opened his mouth, but Grace slammed the door in his face. She turned around and leaned against the door, massaging her temples. Merlin, if she heard the word _violet_ one more bloody time…

Grace wished now more than ever that Regulus were here. He would have tried to get her mind off of all these wedding details. In fact, all of this might have gone off smoother if he were here; not necessarily because he’d have played a part in the preparations, but because Grace would have _felt_ like it was all going much smoother. He would have pulled her from the disgruntled slump she was falling into, tell her trivia about old wizard wedding traditions, perhaps even help her sneak out of wedding preparations entirely.

She wished he were here, plain and simple. She had written to him, despite James’s objections, and invited him to the wedding and reception all on her own. She had asked him about four times if he could find a way to make it. She had written to him about other things, too, of course—about how obsessive James was getting, how particular Lily could be, how _irritating_ Sirius always was.

Regulus had not written back.

Grace wasn’t particularly worried. He had mentioned something about spending more time at his cousin’s this summer, so perhaps he wasn’t receiving her letters or messages. Or maybe Walburga Black had stumbled upon her letters and was ripping them up to shreds before Regulus had a chance to read them. Grace wouldn’t put it past the old bat to do just that.

She hefted a sigh, and smoothed back her dark hair. She had used Sleekeazy’s for perhaps the first time in her life, and her hair seemed almost like it wasn’t her own. She wasn’t used to the easy way it fell back, the smooth way in which it glided through her fingers.

She wanted her hair to be thick and tangled again. She wanted the wedding to be over even though it hadn’t even started yet. She wanted Regulus to show up—somehow, some way.

A warbled hoot from down the corridor pulled Grace out of her thoughts. She craned her neck, and saw an owl fluttering by the window.

“Oh, Merlin, please tell me it’s not from Snape,” she grumbled, heading to the window all the same.

She hoisted the window up. The owl, speckled and brown, flew in easily and settled on the ledge, chirping up at her cheerily. Grace took the letter tied to its leg, and frowned at the Hogwarts crest emblazoned onto the envelope.

“Either this tells me I’ve been expelled, or they decided to make me Head Girl against all odds,” she told the owl.

It gave her another bright hoot. Grace tore open the letter, and read:

> _Dear Ms. Potter,_
> 
> _I am writing to inform you of a change to your seventh-year schedule: Hogwarts has been unable to find a professor to fill the post for Divination. As such, the course has been cancelled until further notice, and you will not be able to continue onto N.E.W.T. Divination for your final year. Without Divination, your course load is now below the minimum requirement of five classes. Normally, I would suggest you choose another N.E.W.T. subject to be enrolled in. However, your O.W.L. exams from fifth year disqualify you from all other subjects._
> 
> _Your best course was Care of Magical Creatures, in which you earned an Acceptable. An Exceeds Expectations is needed in order to enter N.E.W.T. Care of Magical Creatures, so you are still barred entry into the course. However, I have spoken to Professor Kettleburn and arranged an opportunity for you to assist him with his third-year students once a week in order to make up for your decreased course load._
> 
> _Sincerely,_
> 
> _Horace Slughorn_
> 
> _Slytherin Head of House_

Grace stared at the parchment in her hands. What the bleeding hell was this? Where had Vablatsky gone? Was helping a few snot-nosed students really the only option she had? How come she had no say in this? _Why_ was Slughorn doing this?

_It’s payback_, Grace realized immediately, _for the time I brought that Niffler into Slug Club in third year._

“Oh, you wily bastard,” she muttered, crumpling up the letter.

“I’m not _that_ bad,” James called out disapprovingly.

She whirled around, and found James leaning against the doorframe, one arm wrapped around a beaming Lily’s shoulders. Lily looked much the same—not a hair out of place—but James was utterly disheveled. His spectacles were crooked on his nose, and his jet-black hair was a hundred times messier than it had been before he went into Lily’s room. His suit was rumpled, and the knot in his tie was loose.

“What happened to you lot?” Grace said dryly, walking back towards them. “Did you snog or get into a fistfight?”

“Oh, the fistfight,” James said. “Obviously. No nuptial is complete without the planned ten-minute fistfight between the bride and groom, of course—”

“What’s that?” Lily interrupted, pointing at the crushed letter in Grace’s hand.

Grace frowned. “It’s nothing,” she said, depositing the parchment into the pocket of her robes. “My course schedule’s changed, and I’m just irritated at Slughorn for it.”

“I can write to him, if you want?” Lily suggested. “He still listens to my input, although _why_…”

She seemed genuinely perplexed. But James wasn’t.

“Why wouldn’t he take your input?” James said incredulously. “Your input is valuable. It’s _so_ valuable, we should start using it for currency instead of Galleons!”

The joke was the worst one Grace had heard yet. Despite this, Lily laughed, bright and full, and James beamed, swinging down to plant a kiss against her lips.

“Disgusting,” Grace said, and pretended to retch.

* * *

The wedding was in the luscious back garden of the Potter manor, which had fallen to Grace’s father after the unfortunate passing of Uncle Charlus, Aunt Dorea, and cousin Ollie. It had been rather a difficult task to get all the Muggles on Lily’s side to the manor, but they had figured it out somehow with a few well-shot Confundus charms and a couple of glamour spells to keep the more magical parts of the estate hidden.

Lily and James were standing face-to-face in front of a large arch of golden chrysanthemums and crimson asters. The sun, which had reached its peak, was directly overhead the duo, flooding them with light. Behind them, the minister droned on and on about marriage and commitment and whatnot. It had been a bit interesting in the beginning, when he had been referencing Muggle gods, but as the minutes ticked by and his voice grew more and more monotonous, Grace found her attention drifting.

The wedding, truth be told, was the most boring event she had ever witnessed (and she had once fed Flobberworms lettuce for three hours straight). But this was what Lily and James’s parents had wanted—a simple affair that would not catch anyone’s attention. It was for the best, given the circumstances in the wizarding world. And although Grace loathed the prospect of doing this all over again, she privately hoped that James and Lily really would hold a vow renewal, perhaps after the war was over. It could be an entirely magical event—with shooting stars blazing through the night, enchanted ice sculptures dancing amongst the guests, flowers charmed to light up whenever the bride and groom passed. The end result would be more than worth James and Lily’s obsessive planning.

Grace tugged at the collar of her Muggle dress. It was the same one that all the bridesmaids were wearing—a pale gold with a lace bodice and silk skirt. It was a bit tight and suffocating (not at all breezy like the sweeping robes Grace was accustomed to), and the collar itched tremendously, but she put up with it. Hopefully she’d be allowed to change into something more her style for the reception later tonight.

Her eyes flew over the crowd of guests before landing on her mother and father. In the streaming sunlight, Mum’s hair was lit silver. Her eyes were damp and dewy, and there was a silken handkerchief clutched tightly in her hands. Dad was sitting right next to her, clutching her other hand, his hair sticking up like it was nothing more than dandelion fluff.

Dad caught her eye and smiled warmly. She grinned back, and crossed her eyes goofily. Dad swallowed a snort, unintentionally triggering a hacking cough.

Grace winced sympathetically and was about to mouth a sorry to him when a soft pat against her hand brought her attention away from the seated crowd.

“What?” she asked, looking to her immediate left.

Dorcas glanced down at her briefly with a raised brow. “The vows are starting,” she said softly. “Pay attention.”

“I am,” Grace said defensively, swinging her eyes back to the center of the altar, where James had taken both of Lily’s hands in his own.

“Lily,” James started, and the name flew from his lips like a dove taking flight. He said the name with utter devotion, a sea of love crashing over the wedding goers. “You’ve always said we don’t see eye-to-eye, and never would, but—” he stooped down a little, so that he was approximately Lily’s height, “—now we are. We’re exactly eye-to-eye.”

A few snickers traveled through the guests. Sirius, besides James, slapped a hand over his mouth and tried to stifle a loud laugh. Grace couldn’t quite see Lily from her position, but she was almost certain the redhead was rolling her eyes.

“I want to be eye-to-eye with you for the rest of my life,” James said honestly, and Grace _had_ to wonder what on earth that meant. “I want for us to be able to confide in one another. I want for us to be able to be sad and grumpy and completely intolerable with one another. I want for us to be cheery and exuberant and sickeningly in love with one another. I want for us to understand each other.”

There were quite a few guests—mostly James’s friends—who were giggling. Most people were smiling warmly at the happy couple, except for Mum, who was openly weeping.

“Lily,” James said earnestly, “I promise to love you and respect you and listen to you. I promise to be patient and considerate and compassionate. I promise to be the best version of myself for you, always for you, Lily. And I promise—and this is the most important one—to stop making so many puns.”

Watery chuckles filled the air. Grace was grinning. Whoever had helped James workshop this had done a world of good.

“James,” Lily began when the guests quieted, “I’ve known for you for seven years, and you were a right git for most of it.”

The front row, filled with many of Lily and James’s classmates, along with the row of bridesmaids and groomsmen burst into laughter. A fond smile slipped across Grace’s face. Who could possibly forget all the clashes between Lily and James over the years? She often found herself collapsing into giggles at the mere mention of the time James got Lily a singing telegram for Valentine’s in fourth year.

“You were arrogant and air-headed and entirely too annoying for me to stomach,” Lily continued seamlessly. “And I know you’ll never admit it, but I’m almost certain it was you that turned Mary’s pigtails into a mullet back in third year.”

“Wanker,” someone called out from the crowd faintly.

“I spent nearly six years furious with you. I never thought that would change.” Lily’s grin faltered into something softer, something more sincere. “But it did. Seventh year came, and I got to know you. _Really_ know you. You always took the blame whenever one of your mates was in a spot of trouble. There were a group of sixth-years bullying a first-year, and despite the fact there were hexes flying about, despite the fact you were almost certain to end up in the Hospital Wing—and you did—you stepped in. You picked up patrols you didn’t have to. You cheered me up when I was rude to you. You were…_you._ Loyal to a fault, brave till the very end—that’s you.” Her eyes were so tender, warmer than honey. “That’s my James.”

A murmur of affection washed through the guests. Grace’s heart flashed with warmth. She wanted to run up to the altar and throw her arms around James and Lily. She wanted to have them stay in the house instead of move out. She wanted to drag them back to Hogwarts.

“I will always be there for you,” Lily promised. “Even if it’s just to rile up some bloke or pull off a ridiculous prank, I’ll be there for you. Through thick and thin, wide and narrow. I will never hesitate. I will listen before I judge. I will support you. I will encourage you. I will cherish you. I will love you, James. I really will, because, well—you’re very _deer_ to me, James.”

And then she winked at him, although Grace had no idea why. James howled with laughter, and pulled Lily in for a kiss even though the minister hadn’t finished his piece yet. Sirius made a complicated hand gesture to someone off to the side, and suddenly the sky was filled with fireworks. Balloons were being set afloat. Roses were flying through the air. Grace could barely spot Lily and James amongst the mess.

“Well,” Dorcas sighed happily, stepping down from her spot, “that’s that.”

Grace wiggled through the crowd of guests. Her eyes pierced through the throng, soon settling on James and Lily. The minister was frantically trying to call them back, but they were already heading away, completely wrapped up in one another.

She smiled. “That’s that,” she echoed quietly.

* * *

The reception was being hosted on an entirely different portion of the estate, much to the Muggles’ discontent. Some relative of Lily’s was organizing a carpool, carting off a handful of guests every now and then. Grace, having managed to sneak off in the disarray of the wedding, changed into a more comfortable dress and simply Apparated to the other side of the grounds.

“Agh,” Grace muttered as she appeared by a particularly large pine tree. There was a ringing in her ears, likely an effect of her body being compressed through space. She shook it off as best she could, and wandered into the reception party.

It was somewhat scant now, with only a few guests roaming about. James and Lily weren’t here yet, but Grace had a feeling they had pretty much ditched their own wedding in favor of getting a headstart on their honeymoon. Mum and Dad were definitely not coming; they were, in all likelihood, heading back to the cottage to get in a good night’s sleep.

_Aaand that’s my whole friend group_, she thought rather scathingly, setting off to the only thing that had been properly set up for the reception: a bar conjured up by the gazebo. This was almost certainly done by Sirius, and Grace was one hundred percent sure that the dark-haired man had neglected to include Muggle drinks. Oh, well. Hopefully they’d like the taste of Firewhiskey and gigglewater.

Grace hopped onto a stool, settling by the bar top. The bartender hadn’t arrived yet, so she simply summoned a bottle of Firewhiskey from below the counter as discreetly as possible. She popped the cap open and took a swig directly from the mouth of the bottle, delighting when a tell-tale warmth flashed through her.

She glanced around the reception once more. A few more Muggles had arrived, but still no one she recognized. _If Regulus were here_, she could not help but think, _we could have gone off together._ They could have ditched the whole event, probably, and gone to Diagon Alley. There was a new bookstore there that Regulus would have liked to check out, and Grace could restock on stink pellets and Dungbombs. They could settle at Fortescue’s ice cream parlor and simply while away the time.

“Hullo,” someone said politely, coming to sit directly besides Grace.

She glanced suspiciously to her right, where a young man with pale, tousled hair and dark blue eyes had sat. “Who are you?”

“Oh—er—I’m Michael,” he introduced. “Lily’s cousin. Well, second cousin, actually. My mum and her mum are cousins, so we’re not _very_ close, but I did visit quite a bit when I was younger—and—well, you probably don’t need all that detail, right?” He laughed nervously.

She grunted in response, turning away and taking another sip of her drink.

“Nice…dress…?” he said, eyes lingering on the hem of Grace’s deep green robes. “Very avant-garde.”

Her head whipped back to his, and a very disgruntled grimace overtaking her features. “Avant-what?” Was that supposed to be some sort of Muggle insult?

“Oh, you know—” he gestured uselessly, “—really original. Unorthodox, I suppose. It suits you.”

“Unorthodox,” Grace repeated, eyes narrowing.

“I mean—not like—it just seems to be that—” he spluttered for a moment, trying to find his words. “Lily’s mum was telling us that your family’s just a bit unconventional, you know. Special traditions and whatnot.” He swallowed thickly, and completely veered away from the subject by asking, “Your family’s from the countryside, isn’t it? Life’s much simpler there?”

“No,” she said flatly.

“No?” He stayed silent for a moment, and then said, “Lily mentioned that you were around my age. Have you—er—started looking at universities?”

“Universities?” She slammed her drink down. “What—what are you _talking_ about?”

He gulped. “Oh, you know—”

“I really don’t,” she bit, feeling very much out of the loop. “What do you want, exactly? Is it a fight you’re itching for? I’ll have you know—Lily taught me the proper way to throw a punch, and I’ve gotten quite good at it.”

“Hello,” a new voice interrupted kindly.

Grace looked up abruptly, and found, to her utter relief, that Remus had decided to attend the reception party. He looked much better than he usually did—less shabby and rumpled. His sandy hair was smoothed back, and, under the evening light, the faint scars that lined his face were barely visible.

Remus’s eyes flitted over the terrified Muggle. “Someone in a green hat’s been asking for you—”

“Oh, right!” Michael said, and promptly fled from sight.

“Thank you for that,” Grace sighed, propping her head up with her hand. “I was about to break the Statute of Secrecy.”

Remus plopped down besides her. He summoned a bottle of mead and a glass. “Actually—I was just trying to save that poor man before you murdered him. You do realize he just wanted to ask you out?”

“What?” Grace said, sounding very scandalized. “Ask me out _where_?”

“We’ll never know,” Remus said with feigned sadness.

Grace rolled her eyes, nursing the Firewhiskey back to her lips. She felt a trail of faint fire lick the back of her throat. The tips of her fingers and toes were lit with warmth. “That’s dumb,” she said quite firmly. “Imagine going to your cousin’s wedding and flirting with the groom’s sister. Who in their right mind would do that?”

“Oh, of course, because there was that law they passed strictly prohibiting exactly that, right?”

“Ha, ha, _very_ funny.” She clapped slowly and mockingly. “Is that the opener for your stand-up routine?”

“You know—you’re sounding an awful lot like Sirius.”

Grace soured immediately. “Now _that’s_ an insult,” she said, frowning. She took another swig of her drink. “He’s moved out, good riddance. I couldn’t bear another second of being under the same roof as him.”

“He takes up too much space,” Remus agreed quietly.

“Must be his enormous ego.”

“Must be,” Remus echoed emptily.

Grace glanced up at the older man, and found his eyes flitting over the growing swarm of guests before finally settling on a familiar head of thick dark hair. Sirius had arrived. He had an arm planted firmly along Peter’s shoulders, a glass of rum lifted in the air in his other had. He was shouting out a story about James to a few amused relatives of Lily’s. His bowtie, which Mum had meticulously fastened earlier that day, was loose, dangling from the collar of his suit.

“You don’t need to say anything if you don’t want to,” Grace started slowly, “but…have you two made up, or…?”

“Sort of,” Remus said shortly, and tore his eyes away from the scene. He settled back against the bar edge, busily pouring himself a glass of mead.

Grace never managed to find out what had happened between the two of them. She only knew it had happened sometime in Hogwarts, back when she was still in fifth year. Sirius had done _something_ reckless or thoughtless or dangerous or all three, and suddenly Remus wasn’t talking to him anymore, wasn’t even glancing at him. And James was gutted about the whole thing. And Lily was in the know, somehow, but Grace was not. The whole affair stank of deceit, but since Grace had never found out what happened, she never knew _whose_ deceit it was.

If she had to hazard a guess, though, she would say it was Sirius’s fault.

It was no secret she had harbored a grudge against the older Black brother since he ran away from home the summer of Grace’s fourth year, leaving Regulus in _tears_. Grace had gotten two messily written letters from Regulus that summer—one that was just a series of angry rants, and the other begging Grace to find a way to persuade Sirius to come home.

She had tried. She had really, really tried, but it was to no avail.

She sometimes wondered if it was the natural order of things—for a relationship to simply fall apart after years and years, like it was a car running on old parts and bound to break down after a while, like it was nothing more than a rubber band that had been stretched to its breaking point and now it was time for it to snap back. Regulus and Sirius had been so close, once upon a time, and now they could hardly stand to look at one another. And there had been Lily and Snape, too—a steely, seemingly everlasting friendship broken after months of strain.

She could not help but have her thoughts turn entirely to Regulus. They were made of stronger stuff; she was sure of it. They had been through so much together—the ups and downs of Grace’s condition, the twists and turns of Regulus’s family. Grace was almost certain there would be no pulling them apart. They were bound for life.

And yet, she could not help the nagging thought in the back of her mind: _Why hasn’t Regulus written once this summer?_

She decided not to think about it.

Her eyes skimmed over the gaining crowd. More people had arrived. Some relative of Lily’s happened to be a Muggle party entertainer and was producing multi-colored ribbons out of thin air, much to the delight of a few already-drunk wizards. Dusk was settling, quick and heavy, and Grace knew it was only a matter of time before the party was over, before the summer was gone, before her seventh year drew to a close.

“Can I ask you a question?”

Remus’s eyes flickered down to her. “Always.”

“Did you actually enjoy your last year at Hogwarts?” Grace sighed, and leaned further back on her bar stool. “It’s just—you know how _tense_ everything was last year. There wasn’t a spare moment to just be happy. Not with the—” War_._ Not with the disappearances. Not with the Ministry delving into a state of panic. “You know….”

“It was tense,” Remus agreed. He set his drink on the counter. The warm amber of it sloshed precariously against the rim of the glass. “But that doesn’t mean there weren’t happy moments. You were at Hogwarts last year, too. Surely there were still some parts you actually enjoyed.”

“Yeah, but things are different now.” And because Grace could not bear to explain how _strange_ it would be to be at Hogwarts when James would not, she hastily added, “I’m going to be down a class this year. Slughorn wants me to assist Kettleburn once a week to make up for it. Instead of doing what I want, I’ve got to help some dumb teenagers.”

Remus snorted. “_You’re_ a teenager.”

“Yes, but I’m not dumb,” she sniffed.

“Is it Defense that you weren’t accepted for?” he asked. “Because, technically, if you were trying to enter the class based on the _last_ professor’s requirements, I don’t see why that should prohibit you—”

“No, no. It’s Vablatsky. I think she’s done a runner or something, and now the Divination post is empty. They haven’t found anyone for it, which makes sense, I suppose. There are hardly flocks of Seers roaming about.”

Remus’s brows were raised. “You haven’t heard?”

She looked up at him, frowning. “Heard…?”

“About Vablatsky. It came in the _Prophet_ a few days ago.”

“Our house has sort of been cluttered with bouquets and doilies for the past month,” she joked weakly. When Remus’s serious expression didn’t lift in the slightest, Grace’s throat closed in. “It’s nothing bad, is it?”

Wordlessly, Remus waved his wand. An edition of the _Prophet_ from earlier that week appeared from midair and dropped down in front of Grace. She lifted it from the wood of the bar top and opened it up. The headline read, ‘MINCHUM INCREASES AZKABAN SECURITY.’

Grace glanced at Remus. “What’s this got to do with Vablatsky?”

“I think it’s the seventh page.”

She flipped open the newspaper, and her eyes flew over the article:

> _Famed Seer Cassandra Vablatsky Found Dead_
> 
> _By: Emma Squiggle_
> 
> _On Monday, the twenty-first of August, Aurors were called to the home of famed Seer Cassandra Vablatsky following a neighbor’s report of ‘loud bangs and flashes of light.’ The commotion occurred well after midnight, which the neighbor, who has chosen to keep his or her identity anonymous, noted as being ‘unusual’ due to the fact Vablatsky generally ‘put her lights out by eight.’_
> 
> _As it turns out, this neighbor had good reason to be paranoid. After Aurors arrived on the scene, it was quickly discovered that Vablatsky’s home had been raided. Her belongings had been strewn everywhere, treasured photos had been ripped, and items were possibly missing. Vablatsky herself was found in her bedroom, dead by way of baneberry. A near empty vial of the incredibly poisonous plant was found on her person._
> 
> _Aurors initially pinned the incident as a robbery gone wrong, but were still puzzled over the motive behind Vablatsky taking her own life. It was only a few hours later, when the Dark Mark appeared over the Tutshill home that the picture became clearer. It is now suspected that Vablatsky’s home was attacked by Death Eaters—the dangerous group under the command of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named._
> 
> _Our team reached out to Auror Kingsley Shacklebolt, who was first on the scene, regarding possible incentives He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named may have in going after Vablatsky. Unfortunately, Shacklebolt has refused to comment._
> 
> _If you have any knowledge at all about this, do not hesitate to contact the Prophet…_

Somewhere along the middle, Grace stopped reading. In the midst of the wall of text was a flickering photo of Vablatsky from her younger days. Her hair was thicker and pale, and her large eyes blinked up at the viewer. There was a sly smile slipping across her face.

Grace swallowed thickly. A heavy feeling settled into the pit of her stomach. This was the woman who had taught Grace every Divination trick she knew for the past seven years. This was the woman who invited Grace into her private room for tea. This was the woman who gave Grace an Outstanding every year despite the fact that she showed absolutely no talent for Divination. Vablatsky had not just been a teacher; she had been a friend, too.

“That’s it?” Grace said, voice hollow. “She—she’s just gone?”

“I’m sorry,” Remus said softly.

She shook her head. “I just—I don’t understand it. Why would You-Know-Who go after _her?_ It’s not like Vablatsky was a particularly outspoken about him or the war.”

“What I’ve heard…” Remus began, “…is that You-Know-Who is looking for a leg up. Minchum’s rounded up quite a few of his Death Eaters, and he’s intent on having them stay locked up in Azkaban. If You-Know-Who has even a chance of winning this war, he needs to know what areas Aurors aren’t monitoring. He needs to know where to send his Death Eaters, when to send them…”

“So—what? He needed Vablatsky for that?”

“I think he wanted a Seer’s insight.”

“That’s bollocks!” she cried out. “He wanted her to do a tarot reading for him? I—that’s unbelievable—and I bet she said no, so she—” Grace’s eyes wavered back to the newspaper. Her throat closed in. “Oh, Merlin…the baneberry.”

“If You-Know-Who was looking to have Vablatsky join his side—either willingly or by force—well…I reckon Vablatsky wasn’t very fond of the idea, so she…”

“I can’t believe this,” Grace breathed. “I can’t…”

It had been Aunt Dorea and Uncle Charlus first, just two years ago. The war wasn’t at its height yet, but You-Know-Who was definitely a threat. Grace had never quite thought her family would be at any risk. They weren’t very keen on You-Know-Who’s ideas, of course, but she didn’t quite think that was enough to warrant the old coot’s attention. Uncle Charlus had given an impassioned speech to the Wizengamot about creating a task force to resist You-Know-Who and his growing power. Next thing she knew, Death Eaters had gone after Aunt Dorea and Uncle Charlus, and at night, too, like how cowards would. Ollie had managed to escape, likely through some or the other secret tunnel, but he had been found out sometime last year. And he had not made it out alive then.

There had been others after that. An old employee of Dad’s from Sleekeazy’s had been kidnapped in broad daylight. One of the shops in Diagon Alley had been ransacked and left with the Dark Mark over it. Muggle-borns had begun dropping out of Hogwarts towards the end of last year.

The wedding—that ceremony that had been so full of life and light—felt like it had happened a million years ago. Grace couldn’t even stomach the thought of being happy.

“Do you think things are ever going to get better?” she asked after a long moment. She flipped the _Prophet_ article on its back. Although the photo of Vablatsky was now hidden, the feel of it was seared into her mind—the shift of her smile, the knowing gleam in her eye. Had death truly been the only option? Surely there was another way. Surely there was _always_ another way.

“They say it gets worse before it gets better,” Remus said somewhat moodily.

“Isn’t it already worse?”

The last of the light was extinguished from the horizon. The world was swept in darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this chapter! Please let me know what you think :)


	2. Cloak

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grace is perplexed, vexed, enraged, surprised, confused, and—somehow—this all culminates in her becoming a third-year Ravenclaw’s best friend.

King’s Cross Station was just as crowded as usual. The Hogwarts Express, a hulking mass of black and crimson, was settled patiently atop the tracks. A warning whistle was sounded, and steam began to pour from the top of the train, collecting over the ceiling of the station. Students poured onto the train, dragging along trunks, hurriedly waving goodbye to their families.

“You’ll be all right on your own, won’t you?”

Mum raised a thin brow. “Shouldn’t I be asking you that?”

“I’m serious,” Grace insisted. “It’s just that James and Lily won’t be back from their honeymoon for another week, and Dad’s come down with that awful flu—”

“Your father will be right as rain after another course of Pepper-Up,” Mum assured. Her hand found its way to Grace’s cheek. “We’ll be perfectly fine, darling. Don’t you worry one bit.”

Grace swallowed her apprehension. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were trying to get rid of me,” she joked weakly.

The corners of Mum’s eyes crinkled from a smile, and she pulled Grace in for a hug. “Nothing could be further from the truth,” she said. “If I could, I’d have you and James back in the house, playing under the hornbeam for the rest of my days.”

Grace couldn’t help but grin at that. “Mum, I’d like to bring up something from when I was in my third year. If I recall correctly, you said something along the lines of, ‘I’m _fervently_ counting down the days until you two move out and get a place of your own.’ That quote hasn’t exactly aged well, has it?”

Mum released Grace and rolled her eyes. “Oh, you can’t hold that against me. You know as well as I do how _intolerable_ you and James were as teenagers.”

“Fair point,” she granted. She grabbed for the handle of her silver-plated trunk and shifted awkwardly for a moment. “Just to be certain—you’re _really_ sure you’ll be fine—”

“If it turns out I won’t be fine, you will be the _first_ to know, and you can lord it over my head for the rest of my days.” Mum shepherded Grace towards the train. “But, first, you’ve got to get on this train.”

“Alright, alright,” Grace said, hefting her trunk onto one of the cars of the train. “I’ll see you during holiday. Bye, Mum.”

“Goodbye, darling.”

With one last side-hug, Grace peeled herself away from her mother, and disappeared into the depths of the train, hauling her trunk along the carpeted floor. She wandered about for a few moments, from car door to car door, trying to catch a glimpse of Regulus. She didn’t dare scour for him out in the station, where his hawk-eyed mother might be, so she settled on poking her nose into a few compartments.

It was only after the train started to move forward sluggishly that she found him sulking in the last car. He was leaned against the space between two compartments, his trunk lazily hovering above him. His kneazle-cat, Cliodna, was nowhere in sight, but she often wandered away from sight, so Grace wasn’t particularly surprised. She dashed towards Regulus, and, as she drew closer, she began to notice how foul a mood he was in. His eyes bored into the floor, his arms were crossed tightly over his chest, and a frown was stitched into his face.

“Hullo!” Grace beamed, coming up besides him. “Missed me?”

He started, very nearly tripping over nothing at the sight of her. “Oh—er—”

“I think these are full,” she commented absently, moving to peek into the two compartments he was loitering by. “I found an empty one a few doors down, but there’s this weird stain underneath the window.” Her lips twisted into a grimace. “I tried to Scourgify it…but it just got bigger. Is that normal, you think?”

She moved forward, intending to show him to the compartment, but Regulus continued to stand shock still. She glanced back at him, and stopped when she found that his apprehensive look hadn’t lifted in the slightest. He certainly didn’t _seem_ anxious: his mop of dark hair was brushed back neatly, his robes were pressed and ironed (Prefect pin polished and pinned to his chest), and he wasn’t drumming his fingers against the wall or wringing his hands together. He seemed completely fine, save for the dour look on his face.

“What’s wrong?” she asked all the same.

He blinked at her. “What?”

“What’s wrong?” she repeated. “You’re being sulky.”

A shadow of annoyance flickered over his face. “I’m _not_ being sulky.”

“Yeah, you’re just sunshine and rainbows, aren’t you?” She gestured at his stooped form, and raised a brow. “Is it because you didn’t make Head Boy? I told you last year—I’m half-certain Dumbledore makes up the criteria to become Head Boy on whim. How else could James have gotten it? Besides, did you _really_ want James to hand the baton down to you?”

A long moment passed between them. The lighthearted air Grace had brought with her evaporated between them, eclipsed by Regulus’s sullen mood. Grace bit the inside of her cheek, and her eyes flew over him once more, trying to pinpoint what might have happened. Perhaps his mother had said something before he went on the train?

Finally, Regulus said, without a trace of humor or inflection in his voice, “Wynford Kennedy’s Head Boy.”

“Really?” she commented lightly. “I suppose that’s a sensible choice—Ravenclaw and all.”

She didn’t wait for Regulus to respond to that, instead choosing to haul him over to the compartment she had picked out. Her trunk had already been haphazardly pushed onto the metal racks above. Below the window, there was indeed a strange olive-green stain that vaguely resembled a crow plastered against the wall. Grace sat down as far away from it as possible and gestured at Regulus to sit.

With a flick of his wand, his trunk settled opposite hers. He plopped down against the plush seats rigidly, and proceeded to swallow thickly. His hands, neatly folded into one another, settled onto his knees.

“Alright,” Grace started, eyeing him suspiciously, “this isn’t an interview, so you don’t need to do _that_.” 

He shifted a little, but otherwise remained much the same.

She pursed her lips. “Really—are you okay? Does this—” her eyes flitted over him once more, “—have anything to do with why you didn’t write me this summer?”

He stared at her some more, and then croaked out, “I was busy.”

Within the span of those three words, Regulus seemed to grow more pale and withdrawn, as though the mere thought of conversation was making him ill. Grace’s eyes didn’t lift from him. She waited, for a moment, for him to elaborate, but he simply kept quiet.

The last time he had acted like this was the first day of fifth year, just a month after Sirius had run away from home and taken refuge with the Potters. Regulus had been in rather a delicate state then; he hadn’t wanted to talk to Grace much, preferring to burrow his head in a book or stare longingly out the window or listen absently to Grace chatter on and on. She hadn’t quite understood what to do in the beginning, but she soon realized that the key with Regulus was patience. He would tell her what was the matter, in his own time.

With this in mind, Grace decided to abandon her questions. She slumped against her seat, making herself more comfortable, and said, “Have you heard the bad news?”

Regulus tugged at the sleeves of his robes. “Bad news…?” he echoed emptily.

“About the Hobgoblins,” she continued. “They’ve broken up _again_! And I know what you’re thinking—they break up and get back together every other year, so that’ll probably happen again. But _Musicians Monthly_ says that this time it’s _final_. Isn’t that terrible?” She craned her head back. Her eyes caught onto the black gleam of Regulus’s trunk. “And they were working on a sixth album, too. I wonder if they’ll still release—”

Their compartment door was opened, and Grace stopped mid-sentence. The trolley witch, a sweet elderly woman with grey curls and a tartan dress, peeked her head in. “Anything from the trolley, dears?” she asked.

Grace perked up as she caught sight of an enormous pile of cauldron cakes. “I’ll have some of those,” she said eagerly, pointing at the sweets in question. She began fishing around in her robe pockets for some money. “Do you want anything, Regulus?”

“I’m fine.”

Grace exchanged a few Galleons for the cauldron cakes. When the trolley witch disappeared onto the next compartment, Grace looked up at Regulus and found that he was rubbing at his forehead wearily.

“Are you…” she began unsurely, taking a bite of her cake, “…feeling a bit sick or something…?”

“I’m fine,” he said again.

She didn’t believe him in the slightest, but there was no point in arguing about it. Grace dusted some crumbs off of her hands and pulled out a pack of Exploding Snap from her pockets. She forced a grin, and asked, “Well—if you don’t feel like talking, would you rather play a game?”

His eyes met hers—dull grey against bright hazel—and he said, “If you want to.”

She didn’t want to so much as she wanted _Regulus_ to want to. She shuffled through the cards in her hands and fanned them out over an empty seat.

“I’ll go first,” she said, and flipped over a card.

The atmosphere of the game was uneasy and stilted. Grace spent much of it cracking jokes, hoping that one of them might lift Regulus from his sour mood. Regulus spent much of the game in his own head; he was pensive and aloof, glancing down at the cards only when Grace probed him for a move. Even then, he only turned over or chose the first card he saw.

An hour went by in this way, with Grace trying vainly to make their last train ride to Hogwarts as thrilling as possible while Regulus tried his absolute hardest to ensure the exact opposite happened. She was beginning to wonder if Regulus was truly feeling glum or if he was just determined to be in a bad mood.

After Regulus decided to ‘pass’ over a move (“What do you mean _pass_? There’s no passing!”), Grace threw down her last card a little too hard, causing it to flash sparks, and snapped, “Look—I can’t help you or cheer you up if I don’t know what’s wrong.”

Regulus’s lips were pressed into a thin line. “Nothing’s wrong.”

“So you’re just upset over nothing, then?” she pressed. “You just woke up this morning and decided to be miserable?”

He dropped his gaze from her. His eyes traced over to the window. The train was now speeding past large fields of golden wheat. Grace sighed to herself and leaned forward, pressing her palms against the side of her face.

“I’m sorry,” she said at last. “If you say nothing’s happened, then—fine—I suppose nothing’s happened. But it’s clear to me you’re in a rotten mood all the same, and I don’t want for our last year to start off like this.”

Regulus’s eyes found their way back to her. He opened his mouth, and Grace assumed that, naturally, he would be offering his own apology, too. Instead, he said, rather hastily, “I’ve got to go.”

“Go?” Grace’s brows furrowed. “What do you mean? Where’ve you got to go?”

“There’s a Prefect meeting,” he explained away. He rose from his seat, and rubbed at the back of his neck.

“I thought that happens later? We’ve barely spent an hour on the train.”

“It should be starting soon. In any case, I should do patrols, make sure everything’s in order.”

“I can help you with that,” she said readily.

“Er—well—”

“Two pairs of eyes are better than one,” she added.

“Sure, but—”

The compartment door swung open, and Regulus’s words faltered and died in his throat. Grace’s head whipped to the entrance, where she saw, to her utter confusion, Rosier and Yaxley.

She had not had many interactions with the two during her time at Hogwarts. Rosier and Yaxley tended to keep to themselves and a few other Slytherins from old, pure-blood families like their own. Besides the occasional barb, Grace rarely talked to them. They were by no means friends—or even acquaintances. The same was true, she was sure, with Regulus. Although he shared a dormitory with Rosier and Yaxley, they were hardly close. Regulus had always considered Rosier too arrogant and Yaxley too domineering. They kept out of each other’s way.

So why had Rosier and Yaxley shown up at their compartment?

Rosier, with his wavy brown hair and hooded eyes, stood at the threshold of the door. His eyes danced between Grace and Regulus for a moment before finally landing on the latter. His lips were dipped into a faint, disapproving frown. Behind him, Yaxley stood tall and utterly disgusted. His eyes—pale as ice—were narrowed in on Grace, and his lips were twisted into a scowl.

“I don’t remember sending for two idiots,” Grace said flatly.

Yaxley pushed past Rosier instantly, coming inside the narrow compartment. His wand was already drawn. “You’d do best to keep your mouth shut—”

Grace rose like a whip, and she dug her own wand out. “Repeating advice your mother’s given you?”

Regulus came between them, facing Yaxley. His withdrawn expression harshened into something more grave, as though he had been transported from the Hogwarts Express straight into a funeral.

Yaxley opened his mouth, but Rosier stepped in front of him, staring down Regulus. “Where’ve you been?” he asked crossly. “Do you know how much time we’ve wasted looking for you?”

The questions were so bizarre, so unprecedented, so unusual, that Grace could not help but gape. Her wand hand lowered. Her mind whirled with confusion. When had Regulus and Rosier ever talked except out of pure necessity? Why should Rosier be looking for Regulus?

To her further astonishment, none of these questions seemed the least bit surprising to Regulus. Instead of snapping at Rosier, instead of taking points from Slytherin and assigning detention to the duo, instead of insisting that they leave, Regulus simply nodded jerkily and made to move forward. Yaxley stepped out of the compartment, grumbling under his breath. Rosier turned to leave, and Regulus appeared to be more than ready to follow.

“Hold on,” Grace said, catching onto Regulus’s upper arm. “You’re going? What’s—”

“This isn’t any of your business,” Yaxley sneered. “Why don’t you—”

Grace didn’t care to hear Yaxley finish that sentence. Her hand fell from Regulus, and her eyes snapped to Yaxley. “Why don’t you _leave_?” she spat. “Your voice is grating. How anyone can stand to listen to you speak is beyond me.”

Yaxley made his way back into the compartment, muscling past Rosier and Regulus. He loomed over Grace. “If you’d like to keep your tongue, I suggest you stop using it.”

Grace’s eyes burned with rage. She lifted her wand, and the tip of it dug into the white of Yaxley’s throat. “Threaten me again, and I’ll hex you within an inch of your life.”

“Hex _me_?” Yaxley said. “You have no idea who you’re dealing with, you insolent little b—”

“Stop.” Regulus’s voice was tight, and cut through the air like a knife. His hand gripped Yaxley’s shoulder, and he drew the taller student back. “She’s not worth it.”

The fire in Grace sputtered and died out in an instant. Her brows drew together. Had she heard him correctly? _She’s not worth it._ He couldn’t have possibly meant that, right? Grace’s hand fell back to her side limply, and she simply stared, gobsmacked and gutted, as Regulus turned—turned his back on _her_—and followed Yaxley and Rosier out of the compartment. The door closed behind them.

She pressed forward, just touching the thin veneer of the compartment door, almost intending to go after Regulus but falling short. She wasn’t sure what she would do, what she would say. She could hardly believe the moment she was living in.

From beyond the door, Grace could hear the scrape of the Slytherin boys’ heels against the floor of the train. They moved a little further down, but not far enough, because Grace could still hear snippets of their conversation.

“Haven’t we talked about this?” Rosier bit out.

“I thought you said you’d cut off the blood traitor,” Yaxley’s harsh voice bled through.

“She’s not a blood traitor.” This was Regulus’s voice, still world-weary, still exhausted, still—somehow, despite the fact his tone wasn’t venomous at all—hurtful.

“Not a blood traitor?” Yaxley spat. “Isn’t her brother with that Mudblood?”

“Do you need glasses? Does she look like her brother?” Regulus snapped.

An uneasy moment of silence followed between the three of them. Grace stared, wide-eyed, into the white of the compartment door. She wasn’t able to wrap her brain around the conversation she was overhearing. It was simple enough. She understood the words. But the way they were being put together, the fact that it was Regulus saying them…how was she to make sense of any of this?

“Fine, whatever,” Rosier sighed. “This isn’t worth discussing. Let’s go.”

And they went.

* * *

She stood like that—hands by her side, the tip of her nose barely an inch away from the compartment door—for a long moment. It might have been only a few minutes, but it felt like an entire millennia. She did not understand what had happened, only that something had, only that something was wrong.

_She’s not worth it._

Those words couldn’t have come out of Regulus’s mouth, but they did. The only way Grace could manage to swallow down that moment was by assuring herself that Regulus couldn’t have possibly meant it. She was almost certain of that, in fact. She meant too much to him to be called worthless. She stopped him from spiraling into a mess of nerves during exams week. She let him read boring books to her by the Great Lake when they had breaks between classes. She pierced the shadows of his life with light and laughter, and she knew he appreciated that. She _knew_ it.

She was worth so much to Regulus Black, just as much as he was worth to her—so how could he have said that? And why?

The only reason she could conjure was this: something must have happened during the summer. It was the only thing that made sense, because Regulus had been perfectly fine (a little distressed, perhaps, but that had been because he was worried he wouldn’t be chosen as Head Boy) at the end of sixth year. Something must have gone wrong in the summer. It would explain why he hadn’t written her back. It would explain his drastic change in mood.

It might even explain why he was suddenly on speaking terms with Rosier and Yaxley. Perhaps he had been blackmailed into their fold over the summer. Perhaps his mother was forcing him to socialize with them. Perhaps—perhaps—

“I don’t know,” she breathed in frustration.

She reached out a hand, and grasped at the handle of the compartment door. There was no use in her spinning wild theories. She had to find Regulus and free him from Rosier and Yaxley’s clutches. She had to get him to explain himself. She needed to hear the explanation. She needed to know there was one, because the alternative was too terrible to even consider.

She sped down the train cars, tracing over the compartments. She started off carefully enough—subtly peeking through gaps in the doors—but as she passed compartment by compartment, as her search for Regulus proved more and more fruitless, she became rather frenzied. She forced open compartment doors, popped her head in, and muttered an apology when she found Regulus was not there.

It was only when she burst into a compartment and a Gryffindor nearly jinxed her in surprise that she decided to put a hold on her wild search. She exhaled, letting out a long sigh of frustration, and leaned back in a small alcove between the restroom and another row of compartments. She was beginning to wonder if Regulus was even in a compartment. Perhaps Rosier and Yaxley had whisked him off to an impromptu Slug Club gathering. Or perhaps there really was a Prefect meeting, and Regulus had managed to weasel away from Rosier and Yaxley and was now near the very front of the train, listening to the new Head Boy and Head Girl drone on and on.

Grace sighed, and rolled her neck back. Her head bounced against the wall. She was no longer allowed in Slug Club due to the Niffler incident in third year; she was half-sure Slughorn would have wards up to bar her from entering his little group of star students. And she wasn’t sure where the Prefects met in the front car; she only knew that she wouldn’t be allowed there either, and would probably cost Slytherin a few points by barging in.

But at least she’d find Regulus, right?

Grace steeled herself, and moved forward once more, intending to snoop around in the front car. Her eyes continued to linger over the compartments, hoping—despite all odds—that the next one would have Regulus. And if not that one, then the next one. Or the one after that. And on and on…

One of the compartment doors she passed hadn’t been closed properly: the bottom of it was caught in the slot of the frame, leaving a large gap for her to see through. A very familiar voice dragged through the air sluggishly. Grace faltered and came to a stop when she caught a good glimpse of the inside of the compartment.

“—oh, and my mother has been saying that Minchum is simply putting on a show, you see, with the heightened security in Azkaban. He can’t have caught that many forces on You-Know-Who’s side. There are too many, of course. So, really, what’s he imprisoning? Nothing, probably. It’s likely a near-empty building filled with thousands of Dementors. It’s a waste of our resources, if you ask me.”

It was Gamp—rambling on and on, his tone monotonous and irritating—but that wasn’t what caused Grace to come to a halt. It was who was sitting with Gamp: Ophelia Greengrass.

If the day weren’t already so strange, Grace might have stepped in and demanded to know what was happening out of pure curiosity. (Greengrass didn’t associate with Gamp. _No one_ associated with Gamp; it was social suicide.) But, as it happened, she couldn’t care less about _why_ they were sitting with one another. What truly mattered in that moment was that Greengrass was a Prefect, but she had not been called up to the head of the train yet. This meant that the Prefect meeting had not started. But it would, eventually, and Regulus would definitely be there. It was the only place Grace could be sure Regulus would be, and she needed to use that to her advantage.

She slipped into the compartment. Gamp glanced up at her, and his voice stuttered and gave out. He blinked up at her with his bleak blue eyes, faintly suspicious of her entry. Greengrass, it seemed, hadn’t been listening to him at all; she was gazing out the window, one hand propped under her chin, the other scratching at the stiff material of her robes. The passing light struck the auburn of her hair, making it gleam.

“What do _you_ want?” Gamp asked, drawing Grace’s attention to him.

Greengrass shifted her head. If she was surprised to see Grace, she certainly didn’t show it. Her eyes flickered up and down Grace before returning to the window, disinterested.

“Oh, you know—just passing by,” Grace said in an entirely unbelievable voice. “Er—how are you two…?”

Gamp’s suspicion eased. He let out a lengthy sigh. “So-so,” he answered. “I’m a little upset that Hogsmeade trips have been cancelled. Safety is an issue, of course, but I figure the Ministry could have offered protection or instated extra precautions instead of having Hogwarts cancel them altogether.”

“Sure,” Grace nodded along, sitting down near Gamp rigidly. Her eyes flickered to Greengrass. “Hogsmeade’s nice to get away from the school and all. What do you think, Gr—?”

“Yes, I agree completely,” Gamp said immediately, turning to Grace fully. She bit back a groan. “It becomes rather boring, doesn’t it? Milling about the school with the same people, day in and day out. Hogsmeade provides a fresh breath of air, an opportunity to explore beyond the limits of the school. My mother says that the problem with schools nowadays is that they keep forcing students inside, keeping their heads bent in books instead of allowing them to get _practical_ knowledge and—”

“Right, yeah, practical knowledge and all,” Grace cut in. She was staring at the back of Greengrass’s head. The redhead hadn’t moved in the slightest, and Grace was beginning to wonder if she had, in fact, fallen asleep.

“You know—I don’t really believe O.W.L.s and N.E.W.T.s really test our practical knowledge,” Gamp started suddenly. “Take the Astronomy O.W.L., for instance. That was all mugging. I don’t recall there being a single question that actually tested my ability to think critically or creatively. I feel that’s sort of a waste of our resources and abilities, don’t you? How do you suppose Hogwarts is going to rear the next generation of innovators when they don’t even _test_ us…”

He continued on and on about the merits of exams. Grace wracked her brains, trying to figure out a way to shift Greengrass’s attention from the window. She did not know much about Greengrass—only that the girl was constantly at odds with Fuentes (although the feud had calmed in recent years, the two now preferring to simply ignore the other), only that Greengrass was one of the top students in their year, only that she was almost always with Colvin and—

Grace frowned. _That_ was what was so strange about this situation. It wasn’t just that Greengrass was sitting with Gamp of all people; it was that Greengrass was without Colvin.

“Hey—where’s Colvin?” Grace asked pointedly, hoping to draw Greengrass into the conversation.

To her annoyance, Gamp cut his tirade short in favor of speaking on behalf of Greengrass: “Haven’t you heard?” he said imperiously. “The story’s been making rounds. It’s a bit startling, because none of us suspected it in the least. She hid it rather well and all—”

Grace kneaded at her forehead. “Just—what are you talking about?”

“Colvin’s entire family has gone into hiding,” Gamp explained, “on account of her father being a Mudblood—”

“Say that word one more time, Gamp, and I promise you won’t like what happens next.” Greengrass’s eyes tore from the window and narrowed in on Gamp. Her voice was calm enough, but held an icy quality that made Grace shiver.

Gamp dropped his eyes, and he mumbled out an apology. He clammed up after that, settling on twiddling his thumbs and eyeing Greengrass nervously. Grace looked at Greengrass with newfound respect. It seemed she’d had the ability to shut Gamp up this entire time.

“What are you _actually_ doing here?” Greengrass asked, gaze shifting to Grace.

“You’re going to the Prefect meeting, yeah?”

Greengrass’s hand ghosted over the silver and green badge pinned to her chest. “Of course,” she said suspiciously. “What does that matter to you?”

“I’ve sort of lost Regulus, and I can’t seem to find him. If you see him at the meeting, would you mind just telling him to meet me back at the compartment with the weird stain?”

Greengrass didn’t say anything immediately. Grace met her gaze almost defiantly—chin out, jaw tight—and hoped that Greengrass might do her this one favor. They didn’t talk to each other often, if at all, but Grace had always found her and Colvin the most bearable of the Slytherin girls. She hoped Greengrass thought the same of her.

“Why should I do anything for you?” Greengrass said at last.

Grace’s lips dipped into a frown. She wanted to be irritated with Greengrass for this, for the expectation that if she wanted something from Greengrass then she had to earn it, for that very Slytherin attitude of _quid pro quo_, but she had only ever approached Greengrass with the intention of using her so perhaps she should have seen this coming.

“Alright, _fine_,” Grace said. “Regulus went off with Rosier and Yaxley, and I’m worried for him. I just—” she broke off, trying to figure out a way to have Greengrass understand why it was so imperative she find Regulus. “Imagine the situation was reversed. Imagine if Colvin had gone off with them. You’d be worried too, wouldn’t you? You’d want to find her, wouldn’t you?”

Greengrass lifted a brow. “Are you trying to tell me that if I needed you to pass along a message to Lila, you would have? And, so, shouldn’t I do the same for you and Black?”

Grace squinted at her. “Yes…?”

“You haven’t managed to find Black on your own? Surely he, Rosier, and Yaxley must be cooped up in one of the compartments?”

Grace’s temper spiked. Of course she’d _tried_ to find him. It was hardly her fault there were a thousand and one compartments on this blasted train. “Look—just tell me if you’ll pass along the message or not.”

This time, the answer was immediate: “I will.” Greengrass began to lean her head back towards the window. “It doesn’t cost me anything, and I figure whatever’s going on with Black, Rosier, and Yaxley must make for an interesting story…so, why not?”

Grace wasn’t very appeased by Greengrass’s apparent entertainment about the situation, but didn’t voice her qualms. “Alright,” she said. She rose, and inched back towards the door. “Thanks, I guess. And—er—sorry to hear about Colvin.”

“Which part?” Greengrass sighed. “That she’s gone into hiding or that her father’s a Muggle-born?”

“Neither. I’m sorry you’re not together.”

* * *

She left Gamp and Greengrass’s compartment feeling much better—more lighthearted, more optimistic. Greengrass might be a little cold, but she was reliable. If she said she would deliver Grace’s message to Regulus, then she would. And once Regulus heard it—_Grace wants to see you, so go to the compartment with the weird stain_—he would come. Once Regulus knew that Grace was looking for him, he would go to her.

Grace rushed off to her old compartment, eager for Regulus to arrive. She barreled into the last car of the train, but stopped short at the threshold as she saw three boys—young, Gryffindor, jeering—trying to force open the door to her compartment.

“You’ll pay for that one, Hornby!” one of them spat, trying to jab his wand through the gap in the door.

“Do you think this will leave scars?” another one murmured, voice thick. He turned, and Grace winced as she saw his face was dotted with large purple pustules—no doubt the work of this Hornby.

“Leave me alone!” a shrill voice from within Grace’s compartment cried out. “You were the ones who started it—”

“And then you went crazy and attacked us!” the last boy spat. He was the tallest of the three, and his hands were hooked onto the edge of the door, trying to pull it back. “Can’t you take a _joke_—”

“It’s _not_ just a joke!” the girl within cried out. “It’s _not_!”

“Anteoculatia!” the first boy roared after he managed to force his wand inside.

A terrible bang went off, starting Grace. She jumped, and sped forwards. If that compartment was destroyed, then where was she and Regulus supposed to meet?

“Get away from there!” Grace snapped, striding forward with her wand outstretched.

The tall boy had managed to pry open the compartment door completely, but his hands fell slack when he saw Grace. “Er—” his dark eyes darted to his accomplices, “—it’s not our fault. She hexed Green—look!”

Green poked at one of the large pustules on his face, and he groaned in pain. “How bad is it—?”

“Stop _poking_ them—” the tall boy hissed.

“It’s not my fault!” The girl within the compartment, a Ravenclaw, came forward. There was a thin sheen of sweat collecting over her deep russet skin, and her dark hair was frizzy and disheveled. She was clutching her head, where two large antlers had erupted from her skull. “They were making fun of me—and look what Golightly did to _me_!”

“It was in self-defense!” Golightly, the boy who shot the spell, protested. “She hexed Green _first_. If anyone should have points taken away, it’s Horrible Hornby—”

“Don’t _call_ me that!” Hornby shrieked in indignation.

Grace stared at the students before her. “Er—I’m not a—”

“But you _are_ horrible,” the tall boy scowled at Hornby. “Merlin—even Moaning Myrtle can’t stand you—”

“You don’t understand the history—”

“You and your _history_—”

“Alright, shut your mouths,” Grace bit. “I’ll take fifty points from Gryffindor if you don’t—”

“_Fifty points_?” Green cried out.

“From _Gryffindor_?” Golightly said. “Why from _us_?”

“Because I didn’t see her—” Grace pointed at Hornby, “—hex you, but I did see _you_ hex her, so…that’s why.”

The tall boy narrowed his eyes at her. “What sort of Prefect are you? How can you just—”

Grace twirled her wand in her hand. “I’m the sort of Prefect that will hex you in addition to taking fifty points from your House if you don’t leave immediately.”

The tall boy seemed ready to argue further about this, but Green muttered something about Slytherins and his friend relented. The trio of Gryffindors left, but not before throwing Grace a few dirty looks. She rolled her eyes and side-stepped a slack-jawed Hornby in order to get back inside her compartment.

“Nice, the cauldron cakes are still here,” she said appreciatively, collapsing into her seat and taking a cake to munch on.

“Thank you!” Hornby burst, grinning. She moved forward, closer to Grace. “I don’t think a Prefect’s ever taken _my_ side before, and—”

“Oh, I’m not a Prefect,” Grace said plainly.

Hornby faltered for a moment. “But—but you said you’d take points from Gryffindor…?”

“Yeah—I sort of lied, because this is my compartment and I wanted them to bugger off.” Grace gestured at her crumpled cauldron cake wrappers.

Hornby’s face fell. “Oh…I see.” She scratched near the base of her antlers.

Grace sighed to herself, and picked her wand. With a quick swish and a few incantations, the antlers disappeared. “There—they’re gone now. And, while _I_ can’t take points away, my friend can. He’s a Prefect. He’ll be here soon, and I’ll tell him about what happened.”

Hornby was all smiles again. “Really? Oh—thank you.” She sat down in one of the seats, much to Grace’s chagrin. “When will he come? I should explain what happened: I only hexed Green, because the three of them wouldn’t leave me alone.” A tight frown overcame her lips. “I didn’t even really mean to hit Green, I sort of just wanted to scare them away. And I didn’t realize the spell would do _that_.” She looked up at Grace with her large dark eyes. “Do you think Madam Pomfrey can fix his face?”

Grace was fairly certain the only thing Madam Pomfrey _couldn’t_ do was raise the dead. “Yeah,” she shrugged. “He’ll probably be fine.”

She slumped against the back of the seat, relieved. “Oh, thank God. I was worried that he might be stuck like that forever, and then his family would probably write mine. And then maybe they’d even sue me or something, and we can’t really afford to get wrapped up in any legal battles at the moment. My dad’s just lost his job at the Ministry. They’re cutting funds to make space for security or something, and a lot of people in my dad’s department got laid off—”

“Oh, that’s too bad,” Grace said with almost no sympathy present in her voice. “Say, shouldn’t you be heading back to your compartment now?”

Hornby’s gaze fell from Grace. “Well…actually…I was sort of hopping from compartment to compartment. There weren’t any empty ones left, and I don’t have many friends—or any at all, really…” She struggled with something for a moment, but ultimately decided to just swallow it down.

Grace closed her eyes briefly. Merlin—she’d only wanted to track down Regulus. She’d never wanted to almost duel with Yaxley or sit through Gamp’s rambling or even become a young Ravenclaw’s confidante.

Grace looked at Hornby for a moment. Her eyes flickered to the compartment door. It had been partially tugged out of the frame, stuck midway in the frame. If Regulus came by, there was no way he’d miss her. And, besides, it would probably be a while until the Prefect meeting happened.

“What is it?” Grace sighed.

“It’s just—my family’s got sort of a history with Moaning Myrtle. You know Moaning Myrtle, right? She’s sort of—” Hornby pulled a wailing face, “—you know?”

“I’m familiar with her.”

“Yeah, well she used to haunt my great-aunt. Apparently, they didn’t get along in school. But then the haunting got a bit too much, and the Ministry restrained Moaning Myrtle to Hogwarts. But now she just goes around Hogwarts, searching for students related to my great-aunt, so she can make all our lives miserable.” Hornby huffed. “And no one _wants_ to be my friend, because they don’t want Moaning Myrtle to follow them around. Not to mention—a lot of what that ghost says has caught on, like—” she grimaced, “—_Horrible Hornby_.”

Grace’s brows had risen. “Wow,” she said, unwrapping another cauldron cake, “I didn’t think Moaning Myrtle ever came out of her bathroom.”

“She makes special visits just for me,” Hornby said darkly.

“I’ll tell you what—maybe I can get the Bloody Baron to scare Moaning Myrtle into leaving you alone—”

“_Really_?” Hornby practically yelled. “_Really_—you’d do that for me?”

Grace winced at the volume of her voice. “Yeah—I just need to talk to him. I dunno if he’d listen to me, but I suppose if I make it sound like Moaning Myrtle’s been badmouthing him or something…maybe he’ll agree.”

“I think this is going to be the best year I’ve ever had at Hogwarts,” Hornby breathed. “No Moaning Myrtle. Oh, and you’re going to have your friend take all those points from Golightly and the others, too. I just—” she blinked at Grace, “—thank you! Thank you—er—what’s your name?”

Grace smiled wryly. “I’m Grace Potter.”

“I’m Sophia.” She stuck her hand out.

Grace took it and gave her a firm pump. “Nice to meet you, Sophia. I suppose you can just hang around in here until my friend gets back.”

“Okay,” she agreed easily. “And then he’ll take the points?”

“Yeah,” Grace nodded. “But after that, you’ll have to go—if you don’t mind. We have some things to talk about.”

Hornby—_Sophia_—deflated slightly at this news, but agreed nonetheless. “That’s fine,” she said, and began to comb her fingers through her unkempt hair. She pinned the dark coils into a tight bun. “What do you need to talk about?”

Grace shrugged. “This and that.”

“_Oh_,” Sophia said with too much emphasis than Grace thought was necessary. She leaned forward and dropped her voice down to a whisper. “Is it about…S-E-X?”

Grace opened and closed her mouth several times. “I—what? Why are you spelling out that word?”

Sophia flushed. “I dunno…it’s not…you shouldn’t say it aloud.”

“Why not?”

“It’s not proper.”

Grace snorted. “Alright, if you say so. And—_no_—it’s not about S-E-X. Merlin…you kids get stranger and stranger every year.”

“I’m not a kid,” Sophia protested. “I’m thirteen years old. My mum said I’m old enough to go to the mall on my own now—”

“What’s a mall?”

Sophia’s eyes grew wide and round. “You don’t _know_?” she gasped out. “But it’s the best! It’s this big, big building—” she stretched her arms out wide to indicate the size, “—and it’s got hundreds and hundreds of little shops inside. There are boring stores, of course—things for adults, like watches and taxes. But they’ve also got a bunch of fun things! The mall near my house has got _two_ movie theaters in it. And one of my neighbors was working there during the summer, and she let me sneak in to watch movies _for free_! I only wish I’d had another friend working in the concession stand, so I could get free popcorn, too, but…”

On and on the hours went, Sophia Hornby chattering nonstop about all the movies she saw during the summer and the little cream puffs her mother made for her birthday and how she wanted her father’s new job to be at the concession stand in the mall. Grace fell in and out of listening, sometimes watching the young girl fidget on the seat opposite her own, sometimes finding her gaze travel to the wide window—to the lush, rolling hills, the occasional flock of grazing sheep, the streaming white clouds.

Grace held hope every minute of the way to Hogwarts. _Any minute now_, she thought confidently, _Regulus is going to step into this compartment. He’s going to tell me what happened with Yaxley and Rosier. He’s going to say sorry. He’s going to come back. Any minute now._

Evening cut through the sky. When the train came to a stop, Regulus had still not come.

* * *

“Do you think he just got lost?” Sophia posed innocently. “Or maybe he forgot? My dad forgets things often. He once forgot my mum’s birthday, which she wasn’t very happy about—”

“I dunno—maybe,” Grace cut in gruffly. “Let’s just drop it.”

“Okay…”

The night air was thick and vast. Grace waded through it blindly, kicking at the soft, damp soil, scowling at nothing. Sophia stuck close to her side, shrinking under the cool dark. The moonlight that fell through the trees was faint and splintered, doing little to light their way. A chilly breeze whistled through the air, and Grace unconsciously wound herself tighter into the dark wool of her cloak.

Sophia squinted and pointed forward. “I think those are the carriages.”

Grace glanced up, and saw pinpricks of light—the lanterns attached to the horseless carriages. She nodded absently, and dropped her eyes back to the ground. She could not care less about finding her way to Hogwarts, about the Sorting of the new first-years, about the scores of steaming food that would decorate the tables in the Great Hall. She would not enjoy it, not when she had been spurned so viscerally by Regulus.

“It’s sort of unnerving, isn’t it?” Sophia said once they neared the row of dark blue carriages. “The way they just look at you…like they can see into you.”

Grace looked around. There was no one around, save for a few straggling groups of students, and none of them were looking at Sophia. “What are you talking about?”

“The horse-dragons that pull the carriages,” she said matter-of-factly.

“The horse-dragons…?” Grace repeated. Realization dawned on her. “Oh, right, Reg—I mean, I heard that it’s Thestrals that actually pull the carriages. They’re not self-moving.”

“Thestrals?” Sophia said dubiously. “What are those?”

“The…er…horse-dragons. They’re harmless, I think. How—” Grace glanced down at Sophia uneasily. You could only see Thestrals if you’d witnessed death, and Grace had not exactly pinned Sophia as someone who had watched a person die. She decided now might not be the time to delve into that topic.

“How what?”

Grace cleared her throat. “Er—nothing. We should get a move on, before the carriages leave without us.”

They sprinted the rest of the way. Grace was panting by the time they reached the long line of carriages. Sophia climbed into the closest one. Grace put her foot on the step, but before she stepped inside, she cast one last look around her. She spotted Greengrass snap at Gamp as she entered a carriage further down, along with a few other seventh-years, but Regulus was not amongst them.

Grace pursed her lips and hauled herself into the carriage, sitting opposite Sophia. She crossed her arms over her chest, and stared stonily out of the small side window. _Fine_, she thought viciously. If Regulus did not want to see her, then she did not want to see him.

The carriage moved forward with a lurch. Sophia craned her neck out the window. “I wonder how the Thestrals can tell when to start. Do you think they can listen to our thoughts?”

“I—why would they be able to do that?”

“I dunno—it might explain how they know when to move, and…it just seems like they can, right? It’s just the way they look, with those pale eyes.” Sophia glanced at Grace. “What do you think?”

“Er—yeah, it’s weird,” Grace agreed blindly.

Grace hastily ducked her head out of Sophia’s line of sight. She shifted her body closer towards the window, peering through the glass. The moon came into full view as they reached open air. Light struck the craggy black rocks in the distance. Off to the side was the Great Lake, the surface of which shimmered under the moonlight. Silhouetted boats spanned through the body of water.

Grace had never been able to participate in the customary boat ride all first-year students did. She had never quite minded it before, but now…now she wondered what all she had missed.

* * *

The carriages arrived at Hogwarts—that tall castle with spindly spires and rugged parapets—in almost no time at all. Before she knew it, she was encased in the warm glow of the Great Hall. The torches hung across the four walls blazed bright. The majority of the students were already seated and chattering with their fellow classmates.

Grace’s eyes found Regulus almost instantly, which she hated. He was sat amongst the other seventh-year Slytherins, at the very front of the table. On his left was Rosier, and on the right was Yaxley. He was sandwiched between the two of them, and although she couldn’t make out his exact expression from her distance, nothing in his posture—straight back, a goblet of pumpkin juice rolling lazily in his hand—suggested he was displeased about his seating arrangement.

Another scowl ripped from Grace. She ducked her head, and tried to forget all that had happened on the train. She wanted Regulus out of her head, but that only made her think of him harder, made her worry for him, made her more furious at him.

“Er—aren’t you going to go there?” Sophia asked, stopping in front of Grace. She pointed limply at the end of the hall, where the Slytherin table was situated.

“No,” Grace said shortly. “Where do you sit?”

“Me?” Sophia repeated. Her eyes darted about the Great Hall. “I dunno—wherever I can fit amongst the Ravenclaws. Do you—do you want to sit with me?”

“Yeah. Lead the way.”

Sophia brightened almost instantly, and scampered off towards the middle of the Ravenclaw table, pulling Grace along. The contrast between the duo—Sophia’s shining, merry face besides Grace’s sour, scowling one—was alarming, and several Ravenclaws stared at them as they sat down together.

“What?” Grace snapped at them, reaching for a goblet.

They looked away hastily.

“Do you like the Sorting?” Sophia asked conversationally. She turned to Grace eagerly.

“It’s alright,” Grace said flatly.

Her gaze dotted about the Hall. Up in the center of the professors’ table was Dumbledore, deep in conversation with the new DADA professor—a slight woman with bold eyes and sleek dark hair. His hands were clasped together, and there was a certain air of fatigue surrounding him. Grace wasn’t particularly surprised by this. Dumbledore had been called so often to the Ministry last year, he was hardly present at Hogwarts. A rumor that he was stepping down as Headmaster and becoming the Minister for Magic had begun to spread because of it.

McGonagall called for attention, and placed the Sorting Hat atop a stool in front of the students. Grace sighed to herself as the old ragged thing burst into song. She had actually been looking forward to hearing it sing, if only because tonight would be the last time she would ever hear it at all, if only because the finality of it somehow made it more alluring than it actually was. She had wanted to hear the song and make dry remarks about the rhymes to Regulus.

But that had been before the day went completely sideways.

Unwillingly, she found her eyes wandering back to Regulus. He wasn’t watching the Sorting Hat either, but most of the older students weren’t. He was simply lounging between Rosier and Yaxley, quietly listening to whatever the latter were discussing. Rosier had a sly smile on his lips and Yaxley was on the verge of laughter, so Grace could only assume they were throwing slights at the Sorting Hat or Dumbledore.

She started as the Ravenclaw table suddenly burst into a peal of applause, and realized, with a faint dumbfoundedness, that the Sorting had started.

“It’s less than usual,” she noted quietly, eyes flying over the small gaggle of first-years. There couldn’t be more than ten.

“Yeah,” Sophia agreed. “Half my year’s gone, too.”

Grace’s gaze scattered over the Great Hall. Every table except Slytherin’s was noticeably smaller.

“My dad said most families have probably gone into hiding,” Sophia explained quietly, “on account of all the attacks and stuff. My mum wanted to do the same, actually, but Dad didn’t think there was any need. He thinks this might blow over, once the Ministry manages to collect themselves.”

“You could sooner teach a fire crab to play Quidditch than get the Ministry to do their job properly,” Grace muttered into the mouth of her goblet.

Sophia laughed at that. Soon after, the Sorting was finished and platters of food appeared onto the Ravenclaw table. While Sophia dug into a large chunk of roasted chicken, Grace pushed some collard greens back and forth with the edge of her fork. She had swallowed down a couple of bites, but much of her appetite had gone the minute the train had come to a stop.

Dinner in the Great Hall passed by unbearably slow. Grace was painfully aware of Regulus’s presence, even though they were nowhere near each other, even though she was almost certain he hadn’t even noticed her.

She waited and watched. After the empty plates and goblets disappeared from the tables, after the Prefects began to collect first-years, after the students began to yawn and trickle out of the Hall, Grace rose and slunk towards the Slytherin side, intending to latch onto Regulus once he peeled himself away from Rosier and Yaxley’s sides. It was so simple in her head: he only had to excuse himself. He only had to lag behind a moment. He only had to let her back in.

But he didn’t do any of that. From the shadows, Grace saw Regulus walk steadfastly between Rosier and Yaxley. He was so close to them, it was almost as if someone had placed a Permanent Sticking Charm on him. She scowled as she saw them leave the Great Hall together.

“Is he your Prefect friend?”

Grace jumped, and clutched at her heart. She turned to Sophia with narrowed eyes. “Merlin—what are you still doing here? I thought you went up with the other Ravenclaws.”

“I was going to, but I saw you go off, and you were sulking, so—”

“I’m _not_ sulking,” Grace said instantly. A beat passed, and then she sighed. “Alright, I’ll—er—see you later. You should head up to the Ravenclaw tower and get some sleep before classes.”

“Go up by myself?” Sophia said, face flickering with worry. “What if Moaning Myrtle comes?”

“What do you mean—” Grace glanced around the Hall and saw that she and Sophia were the last students there, “—okay, fine, I’ll walk you up, then.”

Sophia beamed, and diligently began to lead Grace out of the Great Hall. “It’ll be good if you’re there, too, because then you can help me solve the riddle. I’ve only managed to get it right once or twice.”

Grace looked at her warily. “I’m not very good with riddles…”

“That’s okay,” Sophia assured. “I’ll help, too. It probably won’t be too hard. The knocker usually gives simple ones the first week back, so the first-years can get eased into it.”

“Er—sure.”

She followed Sophia up the Grand Staircase, into the west side of the castle. They dashed up the stairs leading to the Ravenclaw tower, Sophia taking two at a time while Grace followed haggardly. Soon, they reached a large wooden door with no doorknob or keyhole. In the center of it was a bronze knocker in the shape of an eagle.

Sophia took the knocker in her hand and struck it against the door.

The eagle knocker opened its beak and spoke: “A wizard bought a broomstick. Over time, its malfunctioning parts are replaced. Eventually, all parts are replaced with new ones. Is the broomstick still the same object the wizard first purchased?”

Grace stared at the knocker. “What?” she said. “What—what’re you talking about? It’s still a broomstick, isn’t it?”

Sophia’s nose was scrunched up in thought. “I dunno,” she said honestly. “I mean, when you’ve replaced all the parts, then it’s no longer exactly the same as it was when it was first bought.”

“Alright, then I guess the answer is no—”

“_But_,” Sophia continued thoughtfully, “it’s still the same broomstick in _principle_. And, besides, when did it stop being the old broomstick and start being a new one? When the last part was replaced? But it’s been different since the first sign of wear—”

“Oh, this is just ridiculous!” Grace burst, glowering at the silent eagle knocker. “Who wants to answer some riddle this late at night? And what sort of question is this, anyway? It’s not even practical! Who _cares_ if the broomstick is the same or not?”

The eagle knocker didn’t answer, and—with a sinking in her heart—Grace found her thoughts fleeing to Regulus. Regulus, who would have unraveled this riddle instantly if only he were here. Regulus, who was cleverer than her in the way of words, who always knew what to say and how to say it, who listened, truly listened, who could weasel meaning out of _anything_.

“_Fuck_,” she said, and kicked at the threshold of the door. The tip of her foot throbbed with pain, but it was a small prick compared to the twist and turn of her heart. “Who the bloody hell cares about a broken broomstick? You know—” she seethed at the eagle knocker, “—I’ve got a better riddle for you. _Why_ isn’t he talking to me? Why is he ignoring me? Why _now_? When nothing’s happened? Something must have happened! Is he in trouble? Has he realized something, and—”

“Er—the knocker can’t answer _your_ questions,” Sophia interjected nervously. “It only asks questions that _you’ve_ got to answer.”

“Well—well—that’s dumb!” she exploded. “Sometimes what a student needs is an answer, not a question! Sometimes we just need a little guidance! _Sometimes_, we just want to know why our best friend has fucked off—”

“How about I give it a try?” Sophia suggested.

Grace merely grunted in response, and moved away from the knocker. She crossed her arms over her chest, and glared into the dark wood of the door.

“We change all the time,” Sophia murmured to herself. “Objects change all the time—they collect dust, they wear down. Even if we don’t notice it. I don’t think that broomstick was ever the same as it was at any previous moment. It changed between the second it was bought and the second after.” She peered at the eagle knocker. “I think…the concept of the broomstick remains the same—it’s still the wizard’s property—but materially it’s become different.”

“Very well put,” the knocker said melodiously, and the door swung open.

Grace frowned. She didn’t like the answer. Could a broomstick really become a completely new broomstick just because a few parts had been swapped out? That wizard bought the broomstick to use it, and he did. He flew on it and he treasured it and he loved it, and that affection had worn the broomstick down completely, had changed it over time.

Which parts of Regulus had she bent? Which parts of him needed to be taken out and replaced? Was there some part deep within him that was the _real_ Regulus—shiny and intact—and was it still loyal to Grace? Or did it need to be replaced, too? Was the Regulus that Grace knew and understood gone, simply because she had not paid enough attention?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Grace is sort of beginning to work through the five stages of grief. And here’s some insight into Regulus: his entire thought process at any point during this chapter (and the next few) is just a loop of fuckfuckfuck. 
> 
> Thanks for all the comments and kudos for the series! I’m so glad you’re all enjoying this story! Please keep letting me know what you think :)


	3. Dagger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grace begins her first day of seventh year, finds assisting Kettleburn to be nearly unbearable, and sneaks Sophia into Hogsmeade.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long break I took, but I honestly won’t be able to pump out chapters as quickly as I have before. I have this story planned down to the very last detail, but writing it all is very time consuming and now that I’m back at college and working part-time, it’s very difficult to find time to write anything at all. I do intend on finishing it though, so please bear with me!
> 
> Thank you for all the kudos and comments! Please keep letting me know what you think; I love hearing your insight and encouragement! I hope you enjoy this chapter! :)

The Great Hall seemed emptier in the light.

It was the way the sunlight streamed down from the enormous, breezy blue ceiling and struck almost nothing. There were only a quarter of the usual number of students sitting at the Ravenclaw table, although Grace was not sure if this was because so many of them had gone into hiding or if they had decided to head to the library for an early start on their classes. The Gryffindor and Hufflepuff tables were smaller and slighter than usual as well, with just a spattering of students scattered along the length of the counter.

Even the Slytherin table, which held the most students of any House, was somewhat sparse. As Grace walked along to the far end of it, where the seventh years sat clustered, she noticed, now and again, who had vanished over the summer: Colvin was gone, as she had found out yesterday during the train, and so Greengrass was sitting by herself at the very edge of the table. Wilkinson had vanished, too, although Grace did not think there was anything particularly spotty about his family tree. Even that funny fifth year who had tried to sell Grace expired Murtlap Essence last year had disappeared.

As she reached the end of the table, Grace swallowed down the thread of dread that had begun to puncture its way through her throat and sat down rigidly opposite Greengrass. This was not done out of pity or loneliness. Grace could have sat with some of the fifth year Slytherins (she had helped a few of them with a Potions project last year), or found Dirk Cresswell hidden somewhere in the Hufflepuff table, or even met Sophia Hornby at the Ravenclaw table. But she _wanted_ to sit with Greengrass, because the events of last night—Regulus’s desertion—still plagued her.

Greengrass started when Grace slid in across from her. But the startled look in her eye soon gave way to an unfathomable boredom. “Thank Merlin,” she murmured more to herself than to Grace. “I thought it was Gamp.”

An unintentional smile flickered across Grace’s lips, but she forced it away quickly. “How are you?” she asked rather flatly, scooping some scrambled eggs onto her plate. “How was the train ride?”

Greengrass stared at her. The tines of her fork scratched against the porcelain of her plate. “The train ride…?” she repeated dryly.

“Yeah,” Grace said resolutely. Her eyes flickered across Greengrass’s pale, slight face. Her brows were thin and faint, and her eyes were so light they seemed almost colorless. If it weren’t for the muted red of her hair, Grace might have thought the Prefect a ghost.

“How about we do without the dance this time and just cut straight to the point?” Greengrass sighed.

“Fine.” Grace pursed her lips. “Did you _actually_ tell Regulus my message, or did you decide in the end that it wasn’t worth it because you weren’t getting anything out of it?”

Because this was the only explanation Grace could summon. If Regulus had not come to meet her yesterday, that could only be because he had not been told. If Regulus had not come, that could only be because Greengrass had messed up—because she had told him the wrong compartment, or given him the wrong time, or forgotten to tell him entirely.

Greengrass raised a brow coolly. “How completely unoriginal,” she drawled. “I told you I’d tell him, didn’t I?”

“But did you actually do it?”

Greengrass’s lips thinned out. “Of course I did,” she said, and her voice transformed into something more surly. “If he didn’t come to you, that’s hardly my fault, is it? It wasn’t as though you told me to _convince_ him or anything like that. I told him you wanted to talk to him back at your compartment with the funny stain, and he promptly told me to stay out of it—”

“What?” Grace cut in, alarmed. “What do you mean?”

“He told me,” Greengrass ground out slowly, “to stay. Out. Of. It.”

“But—” Grace’s brows furrowed, “—stay out of _what_?”

Greengrass’s nostrils flared. “Well, he was hardly going to start opening his heart up to me, was he? I assumed he was referring to whatever spat you two have gotten into.”

“Spat?” she repeated. They weren’t in any sort of spat…were they? But they had barely even spoken during the summer; there wasn’t any moment an argument could have emerged from. “What spat?”

“How should _I_ know?”

Grace bristled. “I mean—” she stopped and willed herself to have the patience. “What _exactly_ did Reg—”

“Ah, Miss Potter,” an equally huffy voice called out.

Grace turned and found, to her immense displeasure, Slughorn with a stack of schedules held tightly in the crook of his arms. The old professor teetered in front of her for a moment, beady dark eyes flitting over her distastefully, as though she might have some sort of contraband hidden on her person.

“What?” she spat out, willing the old man to disappear so she could continue her interrogation.

Slughorn’s lips thinned. “I hope you received my letter during the—”

“Yeah, I got it.”

He paused. “I see,” he said, “but you didn’t reply—”

Grace was overcome with the urge to scream. “It didn’t say I had to reply,” she bit.

Slughorn stared at her for a moment longer, perhaps wondering if it was truly worth it to go down this rabbit hole with her, before deciding it was better to move on. He plucked out a piece of parchment from his stack and handed it off to Greengrass kindly.

“Here you are, my dear,” he said, voice transforming from indignant to cloying in a matter of seconds. His dark eyes skimmed over her schedule. “Oh—I see Dumbledore has accepted your petition for Alchemy. Very nice, very nice.”

“Yes,” Greengrass said with heavy boredom, taking her schedule.

“I suppose that means I won’t be seeing you in N.E.W.T. Potions,” Slughorn sighed. “What a shame—I was rather excited to see what sorts of improvements you might make on the brewing times for Amortentia and Draught of the Living Dead. You still have an interest in Potions, I hope, given your father’s business?”

Greengrass shrugged half-heartedly. “I think I would rather branch out into a different field.”

“Oh, yes, of course, of course. Might I ask—”

Grace coughed pointedly, and Slughorn’s gaze—dropping from delighted to distressed—traveled back to her. “Could I get _my_ schedule?” she asked. “_Sir_?”

“Right, right,” he said flatly, and promptly tossed her a paper from the top of the pile.

Grace grabbed it, and her eyes flew over the timetable hastily. It was almost the same as last year—Transfiguration, Charms, Potions, DADA—but no Divination. And although Grace had _known_ this, had been told well in advance of the change, her heart still sunk at the thought of a year at Hogwarts without Divination.

While she still wasn’t quite sure if she bought into the whole idea of fortune telling and a future set in stone, she did appreciate the comfort of Divination. She liked the way Vablatsky would fan out tarot cards in those knotted hands of hers, as though she were cradling destiny in her palms. Grace liked the security of knowing, even if what she knew wasn’t exact, even if she didn’t really understand what she knew.

Grace sighed to herself, and stuffed the schedule into her bag. She picked up her fork and levied a glance at the seat opposite hers, hoping to draw Greengrass back into their previous conversation, but found that the redhead had vanished.

Grace scowled, and stuffed a wad of scrambled eggs into her mouth. She chewed noisily, and glared stormily down at the other Slytherins seated along the long table. Slughorn was still waddling about with his stack of schedules, exchanging pleasantries with members of his Slug Club. Regulus—to her dismay and irritation—was packed alongside Rosier and Yaxley, seated in the very center of the Slytherin table, amongst a cluster of students from influential families, like Helena Selwyn and Anco Dolohov.

Grace tore her eyes away from the scene. As soon as she was satisfied with her breakfast, she rose from her seat like a whip and dashed off to her first class of the day: DADA.

She wasn’t really looking forward to it. She was more apprehensive than anything. Spellcasting classes, like DADA and all the other classes Grace was taking this year, were classes that required students to have partners to practice with. And although there was still a shred of hope in her heart that Regulus might come back to her, might sit down besides her in DADA if she saved him a seat, she knew that the opposite was more likely—that he’d likely stick with Rosier and Yaxley till the very end, although she had no idea _why_.

She burst into the classroom like a tempest, unintentionally crashing into a student standing by the door and sending them both toppling down.

“Agh—sorry,” she said, scrambling back up.

The student opposite her let out a groan of annoyance and rose at well. He was a full head shorter than her, with dark eyes and thin lips. Grace frowned tightly as she realized just who it was she’d bumped into: Irven Gibbon, a Ravenclaw whose pastimes included checking out books about the Dark Arts from the Restricted Section and bullying first-years in Hufflpeuff.

“Oh,” she said, regretting her apology instantly.

“Sweet Circe,” Gibbon said, lips splitting into a wide sneer. “Haven’t they figured out what’s wrong with you yet? At least learn some manners, Potter. You can’t just fit yourself into other students.” He held his arms aloft and began to shudder, putting on a rather poor imitation of one of Grace’s paroxysms.

Fury curled in Grace’s heart like a beast. “Yeah, keep doing that, Gibbon,” she ground out. “See what happens.”

Gibbon snorted. “What’re you going to do? You haven’t got your brother this time around to threaten students into keeping quiet.”

Grace’s jaw clenched. It wasn’t as if she’d _asked_ James to go about flashing his Head Boy badge and taking fifty points away from any student who so much as glanced at her after she experienced a paroxysm in the middle of Charms last year.

She racked her mind for some sort of retort—_don’t you ever get tired of being such a knobhead, Gibbon?_—when a different voice cut in and said quite resolutely, “Oi, take a hike, Gibbon.”

Grace didn’t have to turn to know who it was. She knew that voice—somehow both firm and casual, somehow concerned and disaffected. Besides her, Davey Gudgeon stared down at Gibbon with a hint of disgust.

Gibbon shifted for a moment, eyes darting over Davey, before thinking better it. Davey’s mum was, after all, a member of the Wizengamot.

“You’re all right?” Davey asked when Gibbon wandered away to sit besides a friend in the back of the classroom.

Grace’s eyes flickered up to his face—to the cleft in his chin and the deep green of his eyes and the gentle flop of his brown hair against his forehead—and she bit back a groan. The day had only _just_ started up, and it was already shaping up to be one of the worst she had ever experienced. Losing Regulus to someone as thick and boorish as Yaxley? Being teased by someone as dense as Gibbon? Having to exchange pleasantries with her ex-boyfriend? Merlin—was Hogwarts worth any of this trouble?

“Right as rain,” she said flatly, and made to move.

Davey stopped her. “I figured they’d stop, you know, the…” his eyes roamed back to Gibbon, and he took a momentary pause before shaking his head. “Merlin—sorry—I don’t mean to dredge that all back up. You’re fine, yeah?”

Grace wanted to vault herself off a cliffside, but she nodded anyway.

“Good, good…”

This time, Grace let out her groan. Davey was tall and kind and entirely too handsome for his own good—all qualities Grace had liked _very_ much back in fifth year—but he was also much too passive and indirect and, Merlin, this was just _not_ at all the ideal first day back Grace had been envisioning.

“Was there something you needed, or…?” she said shortly.

“Er—well, no—but—” his eyes flew around the room once more, and he caught onto Regulus sitting besides a bored Yaxley. Davey’s shoulders relaxed, and he gave Grace a strong smile. “I was wondering if you’d like to be partners? Jay dropped out this year, so I haven’t got anyone to work with.”

“Yeah—well, actually, I’ve got...” She swung her eyes about the room as discreetly as possible. She knew Regulus was out of the question, so she looked around for Dirk or one of the nicer Ravenclaws. Unfortunately for Grace, she could not find Dirk and everyone expect for Greengrass, who was sitting by herself in a corner, was partnered up. “I told Greengrass I’d partner with her,” she said weakly.

Davey’s brows rose. “Oh, I see…yeah, sure.” He began to back away. “I’ll see you around, then?”

Merlin, she hoped not. “Maybe.”

With that, she turned on her heel and practically flew to Greengrass’s little workbench at the side of the classroom.

“Oh, Salazar, not again,” Greengrass groaned when Grace sat down besides her. “Look—Black didn’t tell me anything. We literally only exchanged one sentence with one another. I didn’t press him for anymore, and—” her expression shifted from irritated to sour, “—you know what? I don’t know what I’m trying to convince you of. What does it matter what I say? You won’t believe me anyway, will you?”

Grace’s eyes swept to Regulus. He had entered a hushed conversation with Yaxley. Grace could make excuses all day long—that Regulus was simply doing this out of politeness, that Yaxley had chosen to sit next to Regulus and not the other way around—but the plain truth of the matter was that Regulus did not want to move. He was leaned towards Yaxley, huddled into himself. If he wanted to escape, he would have looked to Grace.

“No,” Grace said, shifting back to Greengrass. A sliver of guilt wormed into her heart. Greengrass, after all, had no reason to lie. “No—I believe you. I’m just trying to figure this out is all, and—”

The door to the classroom thudded open, and the new DADA professor strode inside. It was the tall, slim woman who had been speaking to Dumbledore the night before at the Start of Term Feast. Her hair was sleek and brown, and pulled back into a tight bun. Her lips were dashed with red, and there was a faint scar starting at the edge of her jaw that trailed up to her ear.

“Good, you’re all here,” she said approvingly. “My name is Emmeline Vance. You likely remember the introduction the Headmaster gave last night, so I’ll skip the pleasantries and get straight to the point.” She leaned against the edge of her desk. Her dark eyes swept over the class. “Today,” she started slowly, lingering over the huddle of Slytherin pairs, “we will begin practicing the Patronus charm.”

Greengrass raised a brow but didn’t say anything. A few Ravenclaws exchanged uneasy, confused glances. Grace felt the reaction wasn’t exactly uncalled for; Patronus charms, after all, weren’t on the curriculum.

“It is my belief,” Vance continued, “that this war will not end anytime soon. You are in an extraordinarily difficult situation in that you will be thrown into the war upon your graduation. And I do not mean that you will have to _fight_ in the war; I mean you will have to _exist_ in it. You will have to survive it. My hope is to teach you defensive spells throughout this year and give you the necessary skills to ensure your survival. So—” she waved her wand effortlessly, and a silver-lined fox appeared from the tip of it, “—we will begin with Patronuses.”

Grace’s gaze followed Vance’s Patronus. The white fox trotted around the professor’s feet, its sharp eyes glancing from student to student. It was not exactly solid, but it was not entirely airy, either. A trail of bluish-white light followed when it moved.

Vance went over the basics of the Patronus—the use, the wand motion, the incantation—before having the class divide into pairs to practice the spell. Grace glanced back at Regulus, and found that he had turned fully to Yaxley, wand already out.

Her heart sank.

“Clever of her,” Greengrass murmured quietly.

Grace looked to her. “What?”

“Clever of Vance,” she clarified.

The furrow in Grace’s brows didn’t lift. “What do you mean?”

Greengrass gave her a very unimpressed side glance. “You know—I never imagined you’d be so dull.”

Grace scowled. “You obviously think you’re very smart for having figured something out, so just come out with it.”

Greengrass rolled her eyes. “Last night, Dumbledore said Vance used to work in the Auror Office for a few years, meaning she’s an ex-Auror. He’s obviously hired her to weed out any students who might have joined You-Know-Who.” Her gaze flickered back to Vance, who was correcting a Hufflepuff’s wand posture. “And she’s certainly taking that job very seriously—Patronus charms? Those with…_ill_ intent can’t produce one, so…”

Grace’s frown grew deeper. “Hold on—you think there are students _here_ who have joined You-Know-Who? Students in _Hogwarts_?”

“Hogwarts isn’t impervious, you know,” Greengrass said severely.

“I mean—but still—” she spluttered out, “—why would You-Know-Who want some rotten teenagers? That’s mental.”

“Of course it’s mental. _He’s_ mental.”

“Less talking and more practicing!” Vance called out as she strolled amongst the pairs. “No, Higgins—the wand movement must be more _fluid_…”

Greengrass turned away from Grace and sliced her wand through the air. “Expecto Patronum,” she said rigidly.

Nothing happened.

Grace swallowed a snort. “You should make an effort to at least _seem_ happy, Greengrass.”

The redhead glanced at her. “And you should at least _make an effort_,” she said disapprovingly. “You haven’t even got your wand out yet.”

Grace rolled her eyes, and pulled her wand from the far reaches of her knapsack. The old thing gleamed silver under the faint light. She twisted the wand lazily between her fingers, skimming through the ocean of memories in her mind. The happiest ones almost always involved Hogwarts—sneaking into secret tunnels with Dirk or stuffing herself silly in the kitchens with Regulus or getting James caught in the trick step in the Grand Staircase. She grasped at each memory as soon as she could conjure it, held it steadfastly in the center of her mind, and cast the spell.

But nothing happened.

It wasn’t anything to get upset over. Most of the class were waving their wands to and fro with nothing to show for it. Some had, of course, managed to produce a few faint spirals of silver.

“I’m not doing the wand motion wrong, am I?” she asked Greengrass unsurely after she had tried the Patronus charm for the fourteenth time.

“No,” Vance said, stepping between the duo.

Grace shrunk besides Greengrass. The professor seemed somehow taller up close, and her dark eyes were sharp and all-consuming. Grace avoided her gaze hastily.

“I would say this is simply a matter of practice,” Vance began, “but the truth of the matter is that the Patronus charm has very little to do with practice. It is tied intrinsically to emotion. Those who get the hang of it instantly are often those who are more attuned to their emotions. It is for that reason that some witches and wizards find the spell difficult.”

Greengrass’s frown grew deeper with every word Vance said. Grace, for her part, was beginning to wonder if any of her memories were _truly_ happy.

“Er—it’s probably that I’ve got to think of a better memory then, right?” she asked the professor unsurely.

“I find that memories don’t quite cut it for me,” Vance said, and gave Grace a small, quick smile. “It’s usually a small detail that does it for me—the way the light hits a particular surface, or the smell of a freshly baked pie. It doesn’t even need to be something you actually experienced. It could be, for instance, a dream—or a hundred memories collapsed into one. Do you understand me?”

Grace nodded. “Yeah, I guess.”

“Yes,” Greengrass said at the same time.

“Good. Why don’t you try that? I’m sure you’ll be able to conjure something.” With that, Vance crossed over to another pair.

Greengrass scowled after her. “What sort of Defense technique is that? Dream up a memory for the Patronus charm? That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.”

“I don’t think she literally meant a dream,” Grace defended half-heartedly. “I think she just meant that we can think of anything—even things that haven’t exactly happened, or didn’t happen the way you remember. Why don’t we just try it?”

Greengrass grumbled to herself, but brought her wand back up all the same.

Grace waved her wand through the air. Her thoughts swayed in her head, like the gentle roll of the ocean surface. Memories flashed through her mind: She thought of the gleam of James’s smile and the light in Lily’s eyes, the bruising hugs they gave her before departing to some remote cottage in the South Downs for their honeymoon. She thought of the gentle tug of violet over the golden sky, the sweep of sunset, the tilt of the planet as it went on and on. She thought of herself in the center of all this, quiet and contented.

“Expecto Patronum,” she said.

A wisp of silver emerged from her wand, dissipating quickly into the air. Grace’s mouth broke into a wide grin, and she turned, abruptly and without quite thinking, to her side—to where Regulus _must_ be—but there was only Greengrass. Her shoulders fell slack, and her lips receded back into a familiar grimace. Her eyes danced around the room for a moment before landing grumpily on Regulus’s slight form.

He was still with Yaxley, of course. He had not yet mastered the Patronus charm, but he was, along with quite a few others, producing strong coils of silver light.

“I think that’s the hundredth time I’ve caught you gawking at Black.”

Grace’s eyes snapped back to Greengrass. Her lips pressed into one thin line. “I don’t gawk,” she managed after a moment of steely silence.

“You don’t lie very well, either,” Greengrass said immediately. Her pale eyes flitted away from Grace lazily, wandering over to where Yaxley and Black stood. Her head cocked to the side slightly. “I don’t exactly blame you. It does make you wonder, doesn’t it?”

Grace’s eyes didn’t leave Greengrass’s side for a moment. The taller girl was acting very sly again, and Grace would be damned if she let herself seem utterly daft again.

“What makes me wonder?” she asked suspiciously.

Greengrass looked back to Grace sharply. “How Rosier, Yaxley, and Black rarely leave each other’s sides nowadays,” she said matter-of-factly. “They hardly talked before this year.”

The curiosity in Grace died in an instant. “Of course it makes me wonder,” Grace snapped. “Why do you think I was hounding you about Regulus during breakfast?”

Greengrass’s gaze didn’t drop like how Grace expected it to. Grace’s voice could be a harsh, blistering thing when she wanted it to. But Greengrass didn’t sidle away from Grace; she didn’t tear her eyes away hastily or seem even remotely sorry to bring up the touchy subject. Instead, Greengrass’s eyes—somehow simultaneously shallow and chasmic, like a mirror—searched hers almost stubbornly.

“It _isn’t_ a spat, is it?” she said at last, and she sounded almost mournful.

“No,” Grace said. “At least—I don’t think it is. I don’t remember doing anything.”

“No,” Greengrass agreed, and her tone was the softest Grace had ever heard. Her eyes finally left Grace’s and skirted over the stone floor for a moment. Her fingers skimmed over the wood of her wand thoughtfully. “Well—I don’t think there’s any point wallowing about it,” she said simply. “If he’s abandoned you, then there’s no point lending him another moment’s thought, is there?”

Grace stared at her. She knew Greengrass was trying to be helpful, but this wasn’t the sort of advice she was looking for. In fact, she wasn’t looking for advice at all. She was looking for answers. She was looking for action.

Grace didn’t like to sit around and think. She liked to get up and _do._

And—besides—what sort of advice was _this_? No point in lending Regulus another thought? How could Greengrass say such a thing? Of course Grace would think of Regulus. She didn’t particularly like all the thinking she’d been doing—the wrestling of ideas, the wave of questions flooding her mind—but she’d do it if it meant she could figure out what was wrong. She’d do it, because she knew he’d do the same. She’d do it, because it was Regulus who’d always drag her out to Quidditch games when she was feeling surly and it was Regulus who’d read her books in the quiet of the Slytherin common room and it was Regulus who’d calmly talk sense to her when she was feeling overwhelmed with school work and St. Mungo’s visits.

“No,” Grace said at last. “No—that’s not right. There’s more to this. He wouldn’t just… You don’t know him, not like I know him.”

Greengrass’s brows rose ever so slightly, and the taut, tentative thread of friendship that had begun to unravel between them collapsed.

“And yet,” Greengrass said icily, “you’re just as clueless as I am—perhaps even more so.”

* * *

The wonderful thing about seventh year was how many breaks Grace had been allotted between classes. The terrible thing about this particular year was that she had no one to spend them with.

She had searched for Dirk in Charms and Transfiguration, but the gap-toothed, curly-haired boy was nowhere to be seen. She was beginning to think that he had dropped out of Hogwarts, too, although she didn’t quite like lending the idea much thought. She partnered with Greengrass for her other classes, but this was more out of a begrudging necessity than anything; they certainly weren’t going to start hanging out after classes together.

Grace slipped further into the loveseat by the dim heath of the Slytherin common room. Her legs were hooked over the edge of the couch, and her head was nestled against a large throw pillow. Her dark hair almost melted into the deep emerald fabric. She stared up at the ceiling—a strange grey-green color that strongly resembled mold—forlornly.

“Everything is wrong,” she sighed to herself quietly.

The Slytherin common room had always been rather noiseless, save for the occasional rustle of papers or the sweep of a shoe against the carpet, but now it was empty, too. There were only a couple of students scattered about, and Grace wasn’t interested in talking to any of them. What sort of conversation was she going to strike up with someone like Dolohov or Snyde, anyway? _Nice weather we’re having. Say—how do you feel about the attacks on Muggle-borns?_

Grace snorted to herself and shifted further into the seat, burying her face into the pillow. If James and Lily were still here, she would have sought them out. She’d pester James in the Gryffindor common room or badger Lily into helping her with assignments in the library. But now that those two had left Hogwarts—and so many others with them—who was Grace supposed waste time with?

Usually, she’d have Regulus to spend time with between classes. He’d be frantically writing in all the due dates for his projects and essays into his planner while Grace knotted together Gamp’s shoelaces from the other side of the room. Or he’d be reading the assigned chapters from their textbooks out loud while Grace nodded off by the floor of the hearth. Or they’d be squabbling over whether to play Exploding Snap or Wizard’s Chess. Whatever it was they ended up doing, they just wouldn’t be doing it _alone_.

Grace groaned to herself when she felt something scratching at the cuff of her sleeve. “Sod off, whoever you are...can’t you see I’m busy?” she muttered, shifting over and cracking open an eye.

It was not a student, as she thought. It was a cat—black and sleek and bright-eyed.

“Cliodna?” Grace said, startled.

The slight kneazle-cat was balanced precariously on the top of the loveseat, pawing down at Grace’s arms and mewling pathetically. Grace was fairly certain this was the first time in seven years that the cat had _willingly_ come to her side.

“Hullo,” Grace greeted, twisting over and scooping Cliodna into her arms.

Cliodna purred, and gently laid her head against the crook of Grace’s elbow. Her paws clawed at the front of Grace’s robes.

“This is strange,” she commented absently, and made a mental note to take some Clear-Head before she went to bed so Regulus’s cat wouldn’t unintentionally trigger a paroxysm. “What are you doing out on your own?”

Cliodna let out another whine, and Grace relented into petting her. She scratched Cliodna at the nape of her neck and the cat let out a deep and contented purr. Grace looked around the common room, hoping to catch sight of Regulus’s mop of dark hair, but he wasn’t in sight at all.

“Is he ignoring you, too, then?” Grace asked.

Cliodna let out something that was a cross between a purr and a growl.

A smile flickered across Grace’s face. “I’ll take that for a yes.” She stroked Cliodna along her back tenderly. “Fuck him, then, right? I mean—honestly—has he got _so much_ on his plate that he can’t be bothered to give his cat a pet and say hello to his best friend?”

Grace raised a brow at Cliodna, who simply nestled deeper into Grace’s arms.

“Greengrass told me I should just forget it, but how can I? Something’s definitely wrong. If he’s hanging around Yaxley and Rosier and he’s not paying you any attention and—oh, you know, I haven’t seen him slip away to the library _once_ since we got here?” Grace shook her head. “Something’s not right. And it’s just—well, I know Regulus hasn’t _asked_ me for my help, but what if it’s one of those situations where he needs my help but can’t ask? I dunno…”

Grace let out what must have been her thousandth sigh of the day. She did not know much about what was happening; she did not know why her last year at Hogwarts was starting off so sourly or what was going through Regulus’s mind or how to even help Regulus, if she could, but she did know she couldn’t just give up—not yet, at least.

“He’s being a knobhead,” she told Cliodna smartly. “I won’t tolerate knobheadery, but since it’s Regulus…I’ll give it till the end of the week?” She glanced down at Cliodna, and saw her warped reflection in the deep black of the cat’s eyes. “What do you think?”

Cliodna mewled in response, and rubbed the side of her face against Grace’s arm.

“Yeah…” Grace said absently. “It’s just…I can’t _forget it_, you know? I can’t just—not with him. And I know he would do the same if the roles were reversed. I know…”

She knew the old Regulus would do the same, but the question at hand was if this new, post-summer Regulus was the same one she had known these past six years. If he was, then she had to help him. If he wasn’t…then perhaps there was some truth to Greengrass’s words.

Grace secured Cliodna in her arms and hurled herself up and off the couch. “Do you want to live with me in the girl’s dormitory?” she asked as she padded away from the fireplace. “It’s much cleaner there, I’m sure.”

There was a moment of silence, and then Cliodna let out a soft, sleepy purr.

Grace smiled. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

* * *

In Grace’s fifth year, after Sirius had run away from home, she and Regulus developed a pair of spellbound sheets—two spare pieces of parchment that were magically linked to one another. No matter the distance, no matter the time of day or the length of the message, whatever was written on one sheet would be immediately transported to the other. It was something Grace came up with to stay in contact with Regulus when he went home for holiday alone.

When Regulus could stand to see Sirius, when he was less surly about the affair and his parents had gotten over it all, there was no longer any need for the spellbound sheets, and so they had tucked them away between the pages of some or the other textbook and promptly forgot about them.

Until today, of course.

“It’s got to be this one,” Grace muttered to herself as she pulled out yet another sheet of parchment from the annals of her trunk.

Her bed was strewn with parchment she had gathered—crumpled papers with half-written notes, torn scraps from scrolls—in her haste to find her half of the spellbound sheets. The sheet she had pulled out was one of the few left and was completely unblemished; there were no wrinkles or stains. It looked like it had been torn from a brand new scroll of parchment.

Grace grabbed her quill and dipped it hastily in the ink pot that rested precariously on top of her pillow. She pressed the nib against the paper, and drew a haphazard loop. She pulled her quill away and watched carefully as the ink faded deep into the paper and disappeared entirely.

Her face split into a grin. “Yes!” she said, and replaced her dripping quill for one of the ink pens Lily had bought her for her birthday. She grabbed a textbook to hold the sheet over as she wrote and snagged her knapsack from besides her trunk before leaping out of bed.

“You’d best clean up this mess, Potter!” Fuentes called out furiously as Grace sped out of the dormitory.

“Later!” she yelled back, taking the stairs down two at a time.

She dashed out of the Slytherin common room all while balancing the textbook and sheet in her arms. She dragged the tip of her pen over the parchment wildly, trying to squeeze in all that happened this week, trying to make this past week as riveting and captivating as possible so Regulus would have no choice but to read and respond to her.

_Hello—I hope you haven’t lost your half of the sheet, or I’ll be really upset about writing all this for no reason at all. _

_First off, are you okay? I mean you seem fine, but you haven’t been talking to me, which is, quite honestly, a little hurtful. Does it have to do with Yaxley and Rosier? Is your mum having them keep an eye on you or something, because, if so—we can definitely sneak past them. I could trick Yaxley and Rosier in my sleep._

Grace brushed past some students, and put aside her sheet in lieu of maneuvering herself through the Hogwarts courtyard. She was heading to the penned-off section on the outskirts of the Forbidden Forest, where Professor Kettleburn was hosting his first class of the term.

Grace was caught between dread and overwhelming apathy at the prospect of assisting Kettleburn. The dread was because she hardly remembered anything from Care of Magical Creatures. She did not have any of her notes from third year (she was fairly certain she’d thrown them into the Great Lake after exams). She had hoped Regulus might help her find some books about magical creatures in the library that could help her brush up on the topic, but she had not exactly heard from Regulus recently, had she?

And that was where the apathy came into play. Regulus’s strange and sudden behavior was the foremost thing on her mind, the mystery that plagued her endlessly. She could not find it in herself to actually _care_ about assisting Kettleburn.

Grace glanced down at the sheet, and found that all she had written previously had disappeared into the parchment. She struggled to remember where she had left off but soon decided to just write about the moment:

_By the way, I’ve got to go help Crazy Kettleburn now. Wait—I don’t even think I got to mention that to you on the train! Since Divination’s been cancelled, I’m down a class, and Slughorn very kindly (this is entirely sarcastic, as you’ve probably figured out) has arranged for me—_

“Grace!” a bright, jubilant voice called out.

Grace started, and her pen dragged along the parchment jaggedly. Dark ink struck the yellowed paper, leaving a dagger of black in its wake. Grace let out a defeated sigh as her words and the stain vanished into the paper.

Sophia Hornby, with her hair in two tight plaits and a beaming smile plastered to her lips, bounded up to Grace. “Hello—I didn’t think I’d see you out here. Have you got a class by the forest, too?”

Realization dawned on Grace. “Oh, Merlin,” she murmured. “You aren’t going to Kettleburn’s class right now, are you?”

Sophia’s brows rose. “I am—how’d you know that?”

“Well, there was a bit of an issue with my schedule this semester, so I’m helping Kettleburn with his third-year section—”

“This is the best news I’ve heard all week!” Sophia squealed. “This is so _fantastic_, Grace! Golightly, Green, and Preston will _faint_ at the sight of you. Oh, I can’t wait. Are you going to be grading our assignments, Grace? Can you give Golightly a T?”

“Er—well—”

“_Oh_,” Sophia continued, “can you also take away those points from Gryffindor now? Have you made up with your Prefect friend? I can just imagine the looks on their faces when we march up to them and tell them they cost Gryffindor _fifty_ points—for real this time, though—”

“Alright, how about we slow down for a moment,” Grace interrupted. “I dunno if I’ll be grading assignments, but—well, I _hope_ I won’t be, because it sounds like a drag—but if I do, I doubt I can just hand out Ts to your worst enemies willy-nilly—”

“Golightly is _not_ my worst enemy,” Sophia said immediately. “Preston is.”

“Er—yeah, _who_ is Preston?”

“He was with the others when Golightly gave me those awful antlers—”

“Oh, you mean that tall kid?”

Sophia’s lips tugged into a sharp frown. “Yes. He’s my worst enemy.”

“Merlin,” Grace muttered under her breath. “And here I thought this would be easy...”

“No—no it’ll be fine,” Sophia assured. “Preston wouldn’t dare kick up a fuss in class when there’s a professor around.”

The problem was, of course, that Kettleburn hardly counted as a _real_ professor. He was more concerned with his own side projects and pets to truly be invested in teaching. Grace was almost certain he’d retire in a few more years, probably after he lost another limb.

Grace never had time to voice these concerns to Sophia, because the duo reached the small gaggle of third-year Gryffindors and Ravenclaws scattered along the pen Kettleburn held classes in. Sophia glared sharply at Preston as she joined a huddle of Ravenclaws. Preston, in turn, sneered at Sophia.

Grace sighed to herself, and headed over to the front of the fenced-in section, where Kettleburn was handling an ashwinder with his bare hands. The man seemed much the same: his greying hair was just as shabby and unkempt, and his right eye was firmly concealed with a ragged eyepatch.

“Hullo, Professor,” Grace called out hesitantly, approaching Kettleburn’s work area.

The man spun around in surprise. The ashwinder curling up his arm hid its face behind his hand. “Oh—hello, there—er—”

“I’m Grace Potter,” she said flatly. “I’m supposed to assist you during class. I think Slughorn talked to you about—”

“_Right_!” Kettleburn let out a long breath, and his shoulders fell slack. He clapped his free hand against Grace’s shoulder. “Merlin, am I glad to see you. I was just about to cancel class. See—I’ve got to get this little feller back to his family—” he removed his hand from Grace and jutted a thumb at the ashwinder, “—as soon as possible. But now that you’re here, you can go on and teach the class, and I can go.”

With that, Kettleburn gathered a small toolkit from his workbench and began to limp away from Grace. His peg leg rattled unsteadily against the ground with each step. Grace stared after him for a moment, dumbfounded, before finally catching up with the events at hand.

“What?” Grace said, alarmed. She twisted around and caught up to Kettleburn, who was hurriedly hobbling away into the Forbidden Forest. “What do you mean you’re leaving? You’ve got a class to teach!”

“No, no—_you’ve_ got a class to teach.”

“I—what—no, I’m just a teaching assistant,” Grace spluttered.

“Yes, and you’ll be _teaching_,” Kettleburn said rather pointedly. He stopped by the edge of the forest, and turned the ashwinder to his other hand. It wound over the length of his wrist, and snuggled its head firmly between the crook of his thumb and forefinger.

“But what am I supposed to teach?” Grace whipped around wildly. There was nothing set up by the workbenches. The tables were completely bare, save for a few scorched wooden boxes gathered haphazardly on Kettleburn’s work table.

“I wouldn’t worry too much about the details if I were you, Potter.” Kettleburn waved his free hand lazily. “I’m sure you can wrangle together some wandering cockatrices. Or if you’re feeling lazy, I’ve got a few fire crabs in those boxes over there—”

Grace gaped at him. “You mean the wooden boxes? You put the _fire_ crabs in _wooden_ boxes?”

“Huh.” Kettleburn scratched at the back of his head. “When you put it like that, it doesn’t sound so great, does it?”

“No, it really doesn’t.”

He made a face. “Ah, my head’s been addled ever since I ate some erkling tongues. I suppose it’s a good thing you’ll be teaching the class today instead of me, eh?”

“Er—”

“Well, good luck,” he said plainly, and disappeared into the brush.

Grace stared at the part in the shrubbery before cradling her head in her hands and walking back to the gaggle of third years. They had devolved from their pairs and were now gathered in one large clump in the center of the work station, loudly pointing and whispering at where Kettleburn had vanished.

“Think he’s finally decided to live in the wild?” one of them said as Grace approached the group.

“Maybe he’s just gone to take a dump,” another shrugged.

“What happened?” Sophia asked eagerly.

“Er—so, Professor Kettleburn—” Grace swung her eyes over the third years, “—is a little busy right now…so I’ll be teaching you lot about, er, fire crabs. Do any of you…know about them?”

There was usually at least one know-it-all in every year, and Grace hoped desperately that that student was present today. She peered over the confused third years, dark eyes roving from student to student, waiting for one of them to raise their hand and spout out a list of facts about fire crabs.

Unfortunately, no one did.

“So…” Grace began, sidling over to Kettleburn’s workbench. One of the wooden boxes was shuddering violently. “These buggers are rather volatile, so try to be careful. Er—they’re from some island—can’t really remember which—” several students were snickering, but Grace pointedly ignore them, “—but I’m sure it’ll say in your textbook—”

“We don’t have a textbook,” a Gryffindor girl with blonde curls and a bored look in her eye said.

Grace faltered. “Oh. Right.” Kettleburn had never assigned a textbook, but Regulus had gone and check out five different books about magical creatures on Grace’s behalf when she was in third year so she could complete her assignments. “Well...I’m sure the library has some—”

“When are we going to _see_ the fire crabs?” a Ravenclaw cried out from the back. “We’ve been waiting around here for nearly twenty minutes now.”

“You’re being very rude, Holly,” Sophia told off immediately.

Holly’s eyes burned. “_I’m_ being rude?” she said. “I came here to _learn_, not to sit in a forest and have some random seventh-year make excuses—!”

“Technically, we’re outside the forest, not _in_ it—” another girl butted in.

“Whatever!”

“Alright, alright!” Grace snapped, quieting the students. “Let’s pass out some fire crabs, shall we?”

She marched over to Kettleburn’s workbench and opened one of the wooden boxes. A small crab with a glossy red-black shell and sharp pincers looked up at her with beady black eyes. It clicked its pincers rapidly, and Grace winced at the ringing sound.

She fluttered over the box for a moment, trying to decide the best way to pick the creature up and show it to the rest of the class. As long as she avoided the pincers, she’d be fine, right?

Grace gingerly grabbed the fire crab from the behind. It waved its claws around frantically, but thankfully Grace’s fingers were out of the way.

“Right—so this here is a fire crab,” Grace said, waving the creature over the heads of the students.

“No shit,” Preston said, eliciting a few giggles from the class.

Sophia gasped. “You can’t just say words like that in the middle of class!”

Preston rolled his eyes. “Well, you shouldn’t be acting like such a prat in the middle of class, and yet here we are—”

“Grace!” Sophia shrieked. “Preston is being a _git_. Can’t you assign him detention?”

“Er—”

“You can’t assign me a detention if you two are on a first-name basis with each other,” Preston protested. “There’ve got to be rules against that sort of thing. It’s like favoritism or—or nepotism or something—”

“I refuse to believe you know the meaning of the word ‘nepotism,’” Sophia bit.

“What? You can’t just say that! That’s—that’s prejudice is what that is!” Preston hurled back.

“Prejudice!” Green agreed instantly.

“Merlin’s pants—would you all _shut it_?” Grace cried out, drawing the bickering voices to a hush. “Does anyone know _anything_ about these stupid fire crabs, or—?”

“I know you shouldn’t be holding it like that,” the blonde Gryffindor muttered.

Grace faltered and stared at her unsurely. “What—what do you mean?”

“Well, you don’t want its bottom pointing at you, do you?” she responded easily. “Fire crabs fart out the flames, don’t they?”

“Oh, fuck,” Grace said, and immediately switched the fire crab toward the other direction, all while trying to keep the pincers from grabbing at her.

Unfortunately for her, she pressed a little too hard against the fire crab’s underside, and as soon as she had swung the fire crab around, it let out a tremendous burst of fire. The flames shot off far into the sky, but Grace and the students could still feel the sear of the fire.

“Agh!” Grace said, and immediately dropped the crab. It skittered away and into the long grass.

Her eyes stung against the intolerable heat, and she quickly cast a cooling charm over the area. Several students let out a breath of relief. Grace’s eyes swung over the small crowd, hoping that no student had been grievously injured, because that would be _very_ hard to explain to Slughorn.

“I’m being burned alive!” Golightly screamed.

When Grace glanced at him, she saw that there was a small flame flickering along Golightly’s sleeve.

“Just pat it out—”

“I’m on _fire_—!” Golightly repeated frantically.

“Sweet Circe—just—oh, forget it. Aguamenti!” Grace roared, and doused the entire class in a torrent of water.

“Oh, come on!” Holly cried out.

“I’m _drowning_!” Golightly wailed desperately. “I’m drowning!”

“You’re not drowning,” Grace said, voice hard. She pocketed her wand and surveyed the group of sopping wet, thoroughly put-out students. She kneaded her forehead in her hands for a moment. “You know what? I reckon you lot have learned enough today. Class is over now. Go home.”

Most of the class immediately began to stalk away from Grace and the others. A few remained to shoot her dirty glances and skulk around.

One of them marched right up to her and stormily announced, “The only thing _I_ learned today is that this was the worst class ever.”

“Good, because you lot were the worst students ever,” Grace snapped in response. “Just bugger off, why don’t you?”

As soon as the majority of students had cleared off, Grace began to kick at the soft dirt, trying to locate the fire crab she had dropped.

“I think it went to the forest,” Sophia said.

Grace sighed and flopped down onto Kettleburn’s workbench. “Great,” she grumbled. “That’s just what I needed. I’ll just—you know what? If I close the box—” she did just that, “—hopefully he won’t realize it’s gone. And hopefully some bigger thing will eat that crab before it sets the entire forest on fire.”

“Maybe Kettleburn can catch it if you tell him?” Sophia suggested.

“Yeah—no, I’m not going to tell him anything about this. He’ll probably forget the second I tell him, anyway,” Grace said, gathering herself and her things. She rose from the workbench and shouldered her knapsack.

“Where are you going?” Sophia asked, alarmed.

“Back to my dormitory, so I can forget about this awful experience,” Grace told her absentmindedly as she rummaged through her knapsack for the spellbound sheet.

“What? Really?” Sophia said, frowning. “But it’s such a nice day out, and classes are finally over for the day, and there’s so much _time_ before dinner…”

Grace pulled out the sheet, and she frowned as her eyes scanned over the blank paper. Regulus had not responded to any of her messages. This wasn’t exactly distressing. After all, it’d barely been an hour since Grace had written on the sheet to begin with. And it could be that Regulus didn’t even have his half of the spellbound sheets; he might have left it at home, or it might be stuck somewhere deep in his trunk, between wads of spare parchment.

There could be any number of excuses, but none of them made Grace feel any better. She could not help the sinking in her heart. Here was yet another path to Regulus that had resulted in a dead end.

She stuffed the sheet back into her bag.

“…or if you don’t like being outside, we could stay in the castle! I brought a lot of board games with me from home. Some of them are Muggle board games, though. I dunno if you’ve ever played any of those, but they’re really quite good! The pieces don’t move on their own, but my dad charmed my set of _Cluedo_ to act out the murder, and—”

“Actually,” Grace sighed, “I’d rather not play any games.”

“Well…we can do something else, then?” Sophia tried.

Grace struggled to keep her frustration inside herself. It coiled tightly within her chest. She didn’t want to sit inside of Hogwarts or outside of Hogwarts. She didn’t want to be at Hogwarts at all, where vigilant Vance was patrolling the hallways and where Gibbon was sneering at her general direction now and again and where Greengrass was offering her not-helpful advice and where she had to see Regulus frolic about with his _new_ friends. She wanted to get away from the disaster that was her seventh year, but where could she go?

“Oh,” Grace said softly, eyes lit. “I’ve got an idea.”

Sophia smiled. “You do?”

“Yeah—how about you meet me by the statue of the one-eyed witch on the third floor after dinner tonight?”

* * *

“So this tunnel is supposed to lead right to Hogsmeade?” Sophia asked as she followed Grace through the narrow passageway.

The tip of Grace’s wand was emitting a white light. She swung it over head, lighting the stone of the tunnel. She squinted into the distance. She could just see the curve of the tunnel as it meted out into the Honeydukes cellar.

“Yeah,” Grace said. “It’s been here forever. I reckon some students must have built it while the Founders were still around, so they could sneak out of school without getting caught.”

Sophia ran a hand along the wall. “Are there more tunnels like this one?”

Grace shrugged. “Probably. There are a couple James—my brother—found and showed me, but I dunno how many.”

“We should find all of them!” Sophia suggested immediately. “It’ll be cool—like a little project just for ourselves. My dad and I do things like that all the time—building bird feeders and pressing flowers and stuff. Except this is much better, because we’ll be _exploring_. I wonder if anyone in Hogwarts has ever found _all_ the secret tunnels and hideaways. Probably not, right?”

Grace couldn’t help but smile at the enthusiasm. “Probably not,” she agreed as they reached the end of the tunnel.

She pushed open the trapdoor, and hauled herself up before pulling Sophia up after her. Grace dusted herself off and glanced about the room. It was dark and shadowed, save for a sliver of light coming in from the open door up at the top of the stairs. The cellar was filled to the brim with loads of boxes and packages of neatly wrapped suites. Grace nicked a parcel of Honeydukes’ new line of sweet and sour candies. She tore open the top of the packet and popped one of the candies into her mouth.

She grimaced as the taste of what seemed to be pure lemon concentrate hit her tongue. “Oh, no—that’s a stinker for sure,” she said, and spat out the sweet.

“How do we get out of here?” Sophia asked, marveling at the rows of stored candies and chocolates.

“Up the stairs,” Grace said, pointing to the staircase hidden at the very edge of the cellar. “But before we go, we’ve got to disguise ourselves.”

“Disguise ourselves?”

“Yeah, like…here—let’s just fix that over your head…like this…” Grace settled the hood of Sophia’s cloak over her head, letting the front of it flop well over her eyes, hiding her face from sight. “And try to hunch over a bit more, so people think you’re just some small old woman instead of a kid sneaking out of school.”

“Er—alright—like this?” Sophia curved her spine and hobbled forward.

“Yeah, that’s good,” Grace approved, and moved towards the staircase.

“Aren’t you going to disguise yourself, too?” Sophia called out.

“What? No, of course not. I’m of age. If anyone asks what I’m doing out of Hogwarts, I’ll just tell them I dropped out.”

Sophia craned her neck upwards and peered at her. Her hood fell down her head. “Can’t I just tell them the same?”

“No, because you’re only thirteen years old, and—keep your head down,” Grace insisted, tugging Sophia’s hood back over the top half of her face. “Just don’t bring attention to yourself, alright? Once we get out of here, you can act any way you want. I just don’t want the Honeydukes clerk to catch a hold of us.”

With that, Grace hurried up the stairs, pulling Sophia alongside her. They burst into the main floor of Honeydukes. A few shoppers stopped and stared at the strange duo—the hovering seventh-year who was suspiciously moving a large bundle—but Grace didn’t pay them any mind, choosing to dash out the front door as quickly as possible.

Once they were out in the main street, Grace eased up and slowed her pace to a leisurely stroll. Sophia did the same, and shrugged the hood away from her face. She blinked up at Grace, taking in the small town.

“Hogsmeade is nice,” she said appreciatively, casting a longing glance the Three Broomsticks. She pointed at the window of the inn, where Madam Rosmerta had put up an advertisement for a two-for-one deal. “Can we go there?”

“Er—it would be best if we didn’t, actually. Madam Rosmerta—she runs the place—probably knows Hogwarts students aren’t allowed to be in Hogsmeade this year, so she’d definitely tell Dumbledore if she saw a thirteen-year-old running about—”

“What if you charmed me to look older?” Sophia cut in. She ran a hand through her neatly plaited hair. “We could make my hair grey, and add wrinkles to the corners of my eyes and—”

“It’d just be easier if we went over there instead,” Grace said, and pointed to a different inn down at the end of the street.

Sophia followed her line of sight, and wrinkled her nose. “There? But it looks like a dump.”

It did. The sign at the front of the inn was falling off, and the paint was chipping off the walls. The windows were dusty and in need of a good wipe, and the door was fixed against its rusted hinges so insecurely that Grace was almost certain that a slight breeze would be enough to knock it down from its frame entirely.

“Yeah, it does,” she agreed. “But no one at the Hog’s Head is going to rat us out. The owner is Dumbledore’s brother, and the rumor is that they haven’t spoken to each other in _years_.” 

“Whoa,” Sophia breathed. “Dumbledore has a _brother_?”

“Oh, yes,” Grace said sagely as she swung open the door of the shabby inn and allowed Sophia to enter first. “Bathilda Bagshot herself told me.”

“Bathilda Bagshot?” Sophia tested. “That name sounds familiar.”

“Yeah, she wrote your History of Magic textbook.”

“_Oh_,” Sophia said, and nodded enthusiastically. “Yes—I know her. You’ve met her? Truth be told, she doesn’t sound very interesting to me. Who writes five volumes about the same troll war? Doesn’t it get sort of boring writing the same thing over and over again?”

“Sophia,” Grace began gravely, “I’ve been saying the same thing for _years_ now. Come on—let’s get some drinks, and we can talk all about how frightfully dull Bathilda is.”

Grace led Sophia up to the counter, where an old man with a bushy, deep grey beard was sat wiping a filthy glass with an even filthier rag. He glanced between the two girls wearily.

“Hullo,” Grace said cheerily, slapping down a couple of Galleons onto the counter. “Two Butterbeers, please—”

“Can I have hot cocoa instead?” Sophia asked Grace.

“Cocoa?” Grace repeated. “In this weather? It’s still pretty hot out—”

“Is Butterbeer cold?”

“Yeah, there are chilled Butterbeers. Haven’t you had any?”

“They don’t have Butterbeer at my mall.”

“Well, of course they don’t. That’s a Muggle mall, after all.”

“Oh, right.” A beat passed, and then: “But suppose I don’t _like_ the Butterbeer. I _know_ I like hot cocoa, so shouldn’t I get that?”

“Wouldn’t you rather a cold drink?”

“Like what?”

“Like—er—” Grace glanced unsurely at the bartender, “—what sort of drinks other than Butterbeer have you got?”

He stared at them for a long moment, dark blue eyes dancing between the two students. At last, he said, “Shouldn’t you two be in school?”

Sophia froze.

Grace let out a loud, drawn-out laugh. “School? Ha—very funny—er, how about we just get two Butterbeers to go, eh?”

The bartender gave them another suspicious look, but took the coins Grace had offered from the counter and passed over two dusty bottles of Butterbeer. Grace grabbed them in one hand, and dragged Sophia out of the inn with the other.

Once they were back out in the street, amongst the huddle of passersby, Grace passed Sophia a bottle. She snapped open her own and clinked it against Sophia’s.

“Cheers,” she said, and took a large gulp of the drink.

Sophia took a cautious sip and beamed. “This is good!” she said, and immediately began to chug down the bottle.

“Er—yeah, it is,” Grace said, eyeing the girl apprehensively. “Just don’t swallow it all down in one go, okay? You might get sick.”

“Sure,” Sophia said agreeably and slowed down. She walked alongside Grace at a relaxed pace, eyes lingering over the row of little shops. Her gaze traced over the broomsticks on display at Spintwitches Sporting Needs. “This is so nice,” she said dreamily. “I wish they hadn’t cancelled Hogsmeade trips this year.”

“Yeah…although I suppose they’ve got a good reason for it. If something were to happen in Hogsmeade, it’d be tough to get all the Hogwarts students to safety. But, hopefully all this war business will end soon, and you’ll get to go on Hogsmeade trips next year.”

Sophia smiled. “Yeah, that’d be nice. But won’t you be gone next year?”

“If Old Sluggy doesn’t keep me from graduating, I will be.”

Sophia didn’t laugh like how Grace expected her to. Instead, the young Ravenclaw heaved a sigh. “Yeah—so then I guess I’d have to go to Hogsmeade alone—”

“Surely you’ve got some other friends?” Grace interrupted, glancing down at the girl. “You were with some of the Ravenclaw girls during Care of Magical Creatures.”

“Yeah, but only because we’re in a study group together. We share our notes for exams. It’s not like we’re _really_ friends.” Sophia sighed. “It doesn’t help that Moaning Myrtle’s still following me around…”

Grace winced. She’d meant to go speak to the Bloody Baron about that, but amidst all the drama with Regulus she’d sort of pushed it to the back of her mind.

“Er—right, sorry about that,” Grace said hastily. “I’ll talk to the Bloody Baron about reigning her in when we get back to Hogwarts.”

“Okay,” Sophia said somewhat gloomily, “but I’m not sure how much that will help. I feel like even if Moaning Myrtle stops calling me terrible things, it won’t make much of a difference in the end because the others won’t stop. Preston and his friends will _still_ call me Horrible Hornby and do irritating things like levitate my notes out the windows and—”

Grace bit the inside of her cheek. “You know what I think you should do?”

Sophia glanced up at her. “What?”

“You’re obviously much more clever and talented than those prats,” Grace started. “You’ve just got to show them _how much _more clever and talented you are than them, because once they realize that, they’ll know that they’re not a match for you.”

At least that was how it worked in Slytherin. If someone hurled an insult your way but you could shut them up with one witty, well-levied remark, then there was no chance on earth that they’d ever want to cross paths with you again. It might be different with Gryffindors, but Grace felt that once Preston and his friends realized exactly _who_ they were messing with, they’d stop.

Sophia’s brows were furrowed. “But how should I show them that?”

Grace shrugged. “You could challenge them to a duel?”

“To a _duel_?”

“Yeah. Flitwick hosts the Dueling Club. You could ask him to officiate a match, and then you could challenge Preston and kick his arse.”

“But I’ve never been in a _duel_ before,” Sophia started worriedly. “I’d have to learn all the rules, and then I’d have to practice, of course. And—oh—what if Preston _refuses_ to duel with me? Then what?”

That was a fair point.

Grace and Sophia passed by the brightly decorated windows of Madam Puddifoot’s tea shop. There was a cherub tucked into the corner of the display, and he was dressed in a horrendous but intricate assortment of pink doilies.

Grace pointed at it. “We’ll threaten to stuff him into that outfit if he refuses to duel you.”

A smile flickered across Sophia’s face. She opened her mouth to ask another question, but she never got to say it because the windows shattered.

It wasn’t just Madam Puddifoot’s. It was every shop that was lined down the street. Every single one, at the exact same time, had the windows splinter and explode. Shards of glass rained down from every level of each building.

Grace felt them thud against the back of her robes. She shrunk into herself and dropped down to the cobblestoned street in an instant, pulling Sophia down with her. Screams littered the air—high and frantic and thoroughly distressed. Grace’s heart beat against its cage rapidly. She lifted her head from the ground, and inched forward discreetly, trying to understand what had happened. Was it a charm gone wrong? A potion that hadn’t been brewed correctly?

Grace felt Sophia tug at her robes, and she glanced down sharply at the young girl. Sophia was getting up from the ground, dusting off stray fragments of glass from her robes.

“There,” she whispered, gaze trapped at the opposite end of the street.

Grace looked further down, and saw a half-dozen figures descend down the street. Their cloaks were a deep black and whipped wildly in the wind. Their faces were obscured by silver masks. One of them was shouting spells with an outstretched wand, presumably causing the breakdown of the shops that lined Hogsmeade.

She had seen them before—in newspapers, in photographs from James’s Auror files. She knew what this was.

“Come on,” Grace said hurriedly. Her voice was shaking. She gathered Sophia up. “Come on—we’ve got to go—”

“Morsmorde!” one of them cried out, and an enormous green apparition appeared over Gladrags, the shop opposite them.

Grace didn’t stop to look at it, but several others did. They stopped and pointed at it. Some drew their own wands out, others began to Apparate out of the town. Hogsmeade was awash in jets of red and green lights. Grace silently cast a shield charm over herself and Sophia as they sped along towards Honeydukes.

“Is that—is that—” Sophia’s voice trembled.

“Don’t think about it. Let’s go—just—we’re going, we’re going,” Grace said, although she was mostly saying the words for her own benefit.

They sped over the rubble of the street. Grace kept looking over her shoulder despite herself. She could not help the hammer-beat of her heart, the creeping feeling that any moment now, at a single turn of her head, she would find one of those cloaked figures behind her, wand brandished in the air.

“Where are we going?” Sophia panted besides her.

“Honeydukes,” Grace answered immediately, craning her neck back, eyes darting over the horizon, making sure there was enough distance between them and the invasion. “Into the tunnel, and back to Hog—agh!”

Her foot caught under a fallen brick, and she lost her momentum, tumbling over the rest of the street. She twisted around and tried to catch herself from falling, but to no avail. She spun downward, the hilt of her palms hitting roughly against the stone of the street. Her head tumbled against the ground, and then her back—and then, finally, it stopped.

She landed in a pool of broken glass, but it didn’t hurt in the slightest. It was as if she’d landed in a field of soft flowers and damp grass instead. She patted the ground. The shards of glass felt very real—solid and jagged along the edges. She ran a finger down the length of one, and felt a sting as it sliced against her skin.

“What…?” Grace mumbled.

“Grace!” Sophia said urgently, catching up to her.

She gave Grace a hand and helped her up. Grace rose and dashed over the final length of the distance. Honeydukes itself was largely untouched, but so were most of the shops along the end of the little town. Grace hurried down the stairs and into the cellar. Once she was at the trapdoor, she pushed Sophia into the tunnel, followed behind, and closed the hole behind her. Her wand flew over the entranceway frantically as she muttered every possible sealing charm she knew. This was the only passageway Grace knew of that led from Hogsmeade straight into Hogwarts, and she would kiss a banshee before she allowed a single Death Eater the chance to use it to sneak inside the castle.

The cracks in the trapdoor melted away entirely, melding perfectly into the surrounding stonework of the building. Grace let out a long breath, and slumped against the crook in the wall. Her eyes flickered to Sophia, who was staring wide-eyed at the sealed entrance, arms wrapped tightly around herself. Her hands were trembling.

“I’m sorry,” Grace said uselessly. “Dumbledore banned trips to Hogsmeade for a reason. I should have realized. I’m so sorry.” The words sounded so empty and hollow, but Grace didn’t know what else to say. “I—let’s just get back, yeah?”

Silently, Grace began to lead Sophia back through the winding tunnels. The tip of her wand was lit, casting long shadows against the walls. Every now and then, Grace glanced back at the young girl. She was no longer shaking, but she seemed deep in thought. Her arms were still clamped tightly around her body.

“Thanks for the Cushioning Charm, by the way,” Grace said lamely as they neared the mouth of the tunnel. She could just make out the silhouette of the one-eyed witch statue.

Sophia looked up at her and blinked. “The what?”

Grace glanced down at her. “I was falling, but you put that Cushioning Charm.”

“No, I—no, maybe it was the Hog’s Head bartender?” Sophia offered just as they reached the threshold of the tunnel. Her voice was quietest Grace had ever heard. “He came out when we started running…”

Maybe it was him, but Grace couldn’t summon the energy to lend it much more thought. She reached the end of the tunnel, and stepped into Hogwarts. The statue of the one-eyed witch closed behind them, and Grace glanced around the bare corridor. There were a few distant torches hung onto the walls, but it did little to ease the shadows of the long, desolate hallway. She took the first step forward, and the echo of her shoes against the stone floor only served to make the emptiness of the castle more pronounced.

Sophia followed behind almost mechanically, and Grace began to lead her to the Hospital Wing without quite thinking. It was for the best, really. Perhaps there was some wound the younger girl had suffered but didn’t notice in the heat of the moment. Besides, Grace could use the calm yet stern bedside manner of the old matron right now.

“I—I’ve seen them before, you know.”

Grace stopped short, and Sophia collided into her back. Grace twisted around to the Ravenclaw. “Sorry—what did you say?”

“I’ve seen them before, the Death Eaters,” Sophia said again, and this time her voice was drawn out, tight and tired. She blinked up at Grace, and seemed to age twenty years in the span of a second. “There are a lot of Muggle-borns in my town. My mum’s one, too. They came there in the middle of the summer last year. I was out in the park. I knew they who they were, because I’ve read all the _Prophet_ articles—even the really bad ones that Dad tries to hide—so I hid in the hedges. But the others didn’t, and—and they took—” tears pricked the corners of her eyes, and Grace wanted to reach out and pluck the story right from the young girl’s throat, have Sophia forget whatever memory it was that was causing her such distress, perhaps even Obliviate the moment as it unfolded from her mind, “—they took little Harris and spun him around in the air and made him scream and—and then someone got Harris’s dad, but they just put him up in the sky, too, and by the time the Aurors got there…they were both just in the grass, and they weren’t moving….”

Grace’s hand trembled as it grasped Sophia’s upper arm. “I’m sorry,” she forced out after a moment. Her voice was cracked and world-weary. Her mouth was the driest it had ever been. She was parched of words, too tired to summon something better to say. Perhaps there wasn’t anything better to say.

“We should have moved after that. Mum wanted to, but Dad said that would be like giving in,” Sophia sniffled out after a moment. She rubbed furiously at the tears that escaped her eyes. “He said it’d go away soon, that the Ministry was dealing with it…but if they’re coming to Hogsmeade that means they could come to Hogwarts, doesn’t it? What if they come here, Grace? What are we supposed to do?”

Grace swallowed thickly. She remembered those faraway summers she spent at Uncle Charlus and Aunt Dorea’s, the late night games she pestered cousin Ollie into playing with her and James. She remembered the grim slope of her father’s mouth and the teary red of her mother’s eyes when they’d gotten news of her uncle and aunt’s passing. She remembered the day she got the owl about Ollie—how sunny it had been, how unlike a day for death. And she remembered the day James had gotten his letter of acceptance from the Ministry, too, the day he was supposed to begin their Auror program, the day he was supposed to throw himself into the war.

Silence ballooned between the two of them. The hallway seemed to grow longer and darker.

“I want to go home,” Sophia said at last.

The words _Hogwarts is home_ were on the tip of Grace’s tongue, but they didn’t seem particularly true anymore.

Grace pressed against the thin cut along her finger. “Me, too.”


	4. Blind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grace presses Greengrass for answers, and doesn’t like what she hears.

“Have you heard about this?”

Grace gave Davey an irritated side-glance. It had hardly been her idea to have him accompany her to their first Potions class of the year, was it? Normally, she would have sped off with Greengrass as soon as she caught sight of Davey, but the auburn-haired girl wasn’t taking N.E.W.T. Potions (much to Grace’s chagrin).

“Heard about what?” she asked reluctantly.

He thrust the copy of the _Prophet_ he’d been reading towards her. Grace caught sight of the title—THE HOGSMEADE HORROR—and she swallowed thickly. Her stomach twisted uncomfortably.

“Oh,” she let out after a moment.

“Unbelievable, isn’t it?” Davey said conversationally, folding up the newspaper as they reached the threshold of the Potions classroom.

Grace caught a flash of the moving photograph under the headline; it was a mess of green and grey, a swirling emerald skull and snake plastered against the backdrop of the sky. Grace didn’t remember seeing that when she had been in Hogsmeade that fateful day, but amongst the chaos and the confusion, perhaps it had simply slipped her gaze.

“Yeah,” Grace agreed absently, and stepped into the classroom. Her eyes dotted about the room sharply, trying to pinpoint someone she could partner with that was not Davey.

She caught sight of Regulus almost instantly. He was sat in the front, early as usual, with Rosier as his partner. (Yaxley, it appeared, hadn’t made it into N.E.W.T. Potions, and the thought was enough to make Grace smile.)

“There’s a spare workbench in the center there,” Davey pointed out quite unnecessarily.

He swung his finger towards the area, and Grace followed it hesitantly. But her eyes never reached the spare workbench Davey was talking about, because they were captured by the sight of a scruffy boy sat at a lone table and poring over a book of gibberish.

“Dirk?” Grace breathed in disbelief, and made a beeline for the boy.

“Er—Grace—?” Davey called out unsurely.

She ignored him, and set her stuff down at Dirk’s desk. Her books thudded against the wood, and Dirk looked up in a daze. His dark eyes flitted over her beaming form for a moment before returning to his book.

“Hey,” he said.

“Hey?” Grace repeated incredulously, taking a seat beside him. “I haven’t seen you once this past week, and all I get is a _hey_?”

Dirk rolled his eyes. “Thank you, your Majesty, for gracing me with your presence.”

She smiled. “That’s more like it.” She peered over his shoulder at the book he was reading. It was filled with odd, crooked symbols and swirling lines. “Still on the Gobbledegook thing, then?”

“‘Course I am. I’m applying for the liaison office come summer.”

Grace’s brows rose. “Oh,” she said, and suddenly wished she had Sprout for a Head of House instead of Slughorn.

When she’d told Slughorn she was planning on becoming a tarot reader, he simply stared at her for five minutes and then gave her a pamphlet about secretarial Ministry jobs. She’d burned the pamphlet and promptly gone to Vablatsky for an _actual_ career counseling session.

“Do you need N.E.W.T. Potions for that?” she asked. “I don’t recall you taking it last year.”

“Oh, no—I dropped all the classes I was taking last year,” Dirk said matter-of-factly.

Grace’s brows shot up. “What? Why would you do that?”

He sighed and peeled his eyes away from his book. “It was just that Defense and Charms and Herbology were getting _boring_, you know? It’s all just a new spell or a new plant every class, and we’ve been doing that every year we’ve been here at Hogwarts. I wanted to try something fresh, at least for my last year, so I went with Magical Theory and Muggle Studies—”

“Muggle Studies?” she repeated in disbelief. “But wouldn’t _that_ be boring? You know all about that already!”

“Yeah, but it’s _hilarious_ to hear what witches and wizards think Muggles are up to. The other day, Swindells told us that Muggles use rubber ducks to ward off water spirits.”

“Er—is that not what they’re used for?”

He shook his head fondly at her. “You’re all so blissfully unaware…”

“Right,” she said uneasily. “But, again, why are you taking N.E.W.T. Potions, especially if you wanted a change of pace? You know this class is a drag. Do liaison offices require it?”

Dirk sighed. “Sprout said I needed at least one class that wasn’t all theory. I thought this was one would be the easiest, since it’s Slughorn and all.”

Grace clucked her tongue in understanding. Dirk’s gaze returned to his book, and Grace’s began to travel around the room. There were only a few students in Potions, but that was to be expected given the small size of returning students. They were all huddled in pairs, most with copies of today’s _Prophet_.

An image of the floating snake and skull flashed before Grace’s eyes as a Hufflepuff flipped open his copy of the newspaper.

Grace had expected to get in trouble for sneaking into Hogsmeade that day. She had taken a rattled Sophia to the Hospital Wing, after all, and figured that—quite rightfully—Sophia would tell all to Pomfrey. But the young girl hadn’t. In a feat of loyalty that could rival that of even the most stalwart Slytherin, Sophia had refused to say a word about what had happened.

But maybe she should have. Maybe Grace should have gone to Slughorn, or Dumbledore even, and told him about the passages, about the many vulnerabilities Hogwarts possessed.

She sighed and ducked her head, shutting her eyes for a moment. It still didn’t feel quite real. She had been there when it had all gone down…and yet, somehow, it seemed impossible. How could a town so close to Hogwarts be in danger?

“Dirk?” Grace said after a moment. “Why are you at Hogwarts at all? You must be the only Muggle-born who chose to come back this year.”

He lifted his eyes from his book. “What?” he scoffed. “You expected me to stay in Tutshill and let those duffers win?”

It was like a switch had been flipped. Grace grinned instantly.

“Gross,” Dirk said. “You’re in a mushy mood.”

“No, I’m not,” she said immediately.

“Yeah? Then stop smiling at me like that. You’re creeping me out.”

Her smile didn’t lift in the slightest. “It’s nothing,” she said simply. “It’s just been one hell of a week, and I’m happy to finally have a normal interaction.”

He snorted. “You’re calling me _normal_? You really are losing it.”

She laughed. Perhaps things were looking up after all. If Dirk—Muggle-born Dirk with his anxious parents—had decided to come back to Hogwarts, then surely things weren’t as bad as they seemed.

* * *

_I saw Slughorn docked a few points from the potion you and Rosier made. If he’s not a good enough partner, you know we can always partner up instead, right? The Potter potioneering gene makes me impervious to mistakes, so—_

“Is that your diary?”

Grace threw her quill away and covered the spellbound sheet as best she could. She glanced up and relaxed when she saw it was only a curious Greengrass.

“Interesting,” Greengrass noted as she saw the words Grace had written begin to disappear. “But how’re you supposed to look back at your entries if they all vanish?”

“It’s not a diary,” Grace grumbled, folding up the sheet. “It’s a sheet that’s connected to another sheet. You write a message on this one and it disappears as it’s sent to the other.”

A stunned silence followed.

Grace glanced cautiously at Greengrass, and found, to her surprise, that the girl seemed disappointed by this news.

“What?” Grace probed.

“I was searching for something like that during the summer,” Greengrass muttered, turning away. She began to take out her Defense textbook. “But I couldn’t find anything like that. Not even at Borgin and Burkes…”

“Yeah, well, I reckon this is the only one of its kind,” Grace said, lamely slapping a hand against her sheet. “Regulus and I made it back in fifth year.”

Greengrass pursed her lips. “Of course you did.”

“Er—if you want a pair of sheets, I could make them for you.”

Grace could scarcely believe the words that were coming out of her mouth. Every conversation she held with Greengrass seemed to end with the two at odds…but it wasn’t as if Greengrass had been particularly troublesome these past few weeks. In fact, it had been quite the opposite. Greengrass was a diligent partner; she put in her work, didn’t ask anything unreasonable of Grace, and was rather excellent at keeping Gamp at bay.

What was one favor?

“It’s not very hard,” Grace continued. “I just need to dig up the ingredients for the potion to coat the papers in. And we’ve got to put a charm on the sheets in the end—but that’s not my strong suit, so if you’d rather do it—”

“No, it’s fine,” Greengrass cut in briskly.

Grace stared at her. “Well, if you’re sure…but you sounded like you really want one. It’s honestly no trouble. The ingredients aren’t hard to come by.”

“No, it’s just—” Greengrass exhaled sharply. “I wanted one for Lila and me. She told me she wasn’t coming back at the end of last year, and I thought if I could find a way to keep us in contact with one another then maybe it wouldn’t be so bad…but I couldn’t find something discreet enough.”

“Oh,” Grace said, sinking against her seat. “That’s right. Colvin went into hiding already, yeah? We wouldn’t be able to get her half of the sheet to her, then…”

“No,” Greengrass said quietly.

Grace’s eyes flickered over the sullen girl. “You really miss her, don’t you?”

Greengrass’s pale eyes snapped to hers. “You don’t know what it’s like not to know,” she said quietly. “I don’t know if the silence is good or bad. If no contact means she’s doing well or badly. I mean…” She glanced surreptitiously at Grace and swallowed thickly. “Forget it.”

A steady silence fell between them. Grace ran her fingers over the feather of her quill for a moment before letting out, “I’m sorry. You’re right. I wouldn’t know what that’s like.”

“It’s fine.” Greengrass waved her hand dismissively, somehow composed as ever. “And—er...thanks for the offer, I suppose.”

“Yeah, ‘course—”

The door swung open, and Vance strode in. She was dressed in the sweeping dark grey robes that were standard issue for all Aurors. The front of her robes were splattered with dirt, and there was a nasty cut along the edge of her jaw.

“Sorry for the tardiness,” Vance panted as she entered. As she walked to the center of the classroom, she waved her wand over her clothes, vanishing any trace of soil from them. “I was—er—held up by something.”

The class stared at her.

“What’re you all sitting around for?” Vance said. “Come on—up, up! We’ve yet to master the Patronus. Go on—get into your pairs.”

Grace scrambled up and stood besides Greengrass rigidly.

“Here we go again,” Greengrass grumbled, and swept her wand into an arc. A well of silver light poured from the tip.

“Does she actually expect us to produce a corporeal Patronus?” Grace asked under her breath after she produced a few strong spirals of white light. “There are fully grown wizards who go their entire lives never being able to produce an _actual_ Patronus.”

“Then I suppose this is the only thing we’ll be doing this whole year.”

Grace blanched. “You can’t be serious. I’ll go mad if we keep this up any longer. We’re all clearly rubbish at this.” She shook her head. “You know—if producing a Patronus is any indication of how good or bad we are, Vance is going to have to lock us _all_ up.”

Greengrass snorted. “It _is_ a famously difficult charm,” she reminded Grace. “I’ll be surprised if anyone manages to get something even remotely corporeal within the first month, let alone the first two weeks.”

“Oh, Merlin, we’d better not be doing this for any longer than a month,” Grace moaned. “I was actually looking forward to what Vance was going to teach, you know? She started off so well, talking about survival and whatnot. Now I think she’s just trying to create less work for herself.”

“Would you rather we still had Hobbles?”

Grace winced. Hobbles had been the DADA professor last year, and while the doddering old man had _meant_ well, he had an irritating tendency of mumbling through his spells and accidentally setting things on fire because of it. On one occasion, Hobbles mispronounced the Reductor Curse and burnt Grace’s Transfiguration essay.

“She’s better than Hobbles,” Grace admitted, “but I wish she’d just move on. I feel like we’re just wasting time on this is all. I mean—”

A flurry of gasps swept through the classroom, and Grace cut herself off prematurely in favor of twisting around to the source of the noise. A flash of silver skittered across the floor, and Grace realized with a sort of dull astonishment that someone had at last managed to cast a corporeal Patronus. It was a tiny thing—a lithe kneazle-cat lurking about the corners of the room. Its fur was a deep silver, and under the light of the windows, occasionally flashed brightly. Its eyes were a dark grey, and darted about the classroom almost warily. 

“Wonderful work, Mr. Black,” Vance complimented, coming over to inspect the Patronus.

Regulus was stood with his back flush against the wall, staring at his prowling Patronus with a shade of bewilderment similar to Grace’s. Besides him, Yaxley was scowling.

Grace tore her eyes away from the scene. “_Wonderful_,” she muttered scathingly. Her mind flew to her copy of the spellbound sheet. She was yet to get a response back from Regulus. “_So_ wonderful.”

“Were you expecting to get it first?” Greengrass asked lightly. She had not been very invested in the scene, preferring to work on her own Patronus rather than gawk at Regulus’s like everyone else.

“No,” Grace said stoutly, because she hadn’t. (Regulus usually got the hang of more complex spellwork before she did, but that was only because he devoted more time to it than she ever cared to.) She had expected to _see_ Regulus’s Patronus first.

She had expected to see it late into the night, because Regulus would have refused to go to sleep until he mastered the spell. She had expected it to be cast for her eyes and her eyes only, because she would be the only one willing to stay up with him in the common room on a Friday night working on homework, of all things. And if they had not been together, if he had gone off on his own to work on the spell, then she expected him to come to her in a flurry, in a mess of excitement, and show her.

And the more she thought of this expectation of hers, the more foolish she felt for it. Why had she ever thought that would happen? She had seen his Patronus like every other person in this classroom. She was just another passerby to him now, another face in the crowd.

But _why_?

Greengrass waved her wand through the air again, and a mesh of silver flew from the tip of it. Her Patronus was a tangle of light; Grace could just make out the slender tilt of a beak and a long neck.

“Oh,” Greengrass said when her concentration broke and the sliver of her Patronus vanished, “Was that a bird?”

Grace shrugged. “Could be some sort of insect—with pincers and stuff. You always struck me as a scarab, Greengrass.”

“You know, Potter,” Greengrass began lightly, waving her wand once more, “maybe you’d have better luck producing a Patronus if you devoted less brainpower to coming up with bad jokes and more towards casting the spell.”

Grace rolled her eyes, but lifted her wand all the same. Just as she swung the tip of her wand, she felt a familiar lightheadedness creep over her. An ache flashed through her temples like lightning.

Grace’s wand arm fell slack against her side.

“Oh, right,” she said weakly.

In the chaos and confusion of the Hogsmeade Horror, she had missed her nightly dose of Clear-Head Concoction.

* * *

Sound came before sight.

Grace stirred under the many linen sheets of her cot at the Hospital Wing, but she couldn’t force her eyes open. Her mind rung from the force of her paroxysm, and she ached for it to quiet down for a moment, just a moment. She kept herself still, trying to battle away the lingering pangs of pain.

“—I just don’t think we should overwhelm her, you know?”

“But if not now, when? We should have told her days ago, but you wanted to put it off then, too.”

“That wasn’t my idea! Mum didn’t want to worry her. Stress only triggers more episodes.”

“Well can you imagine how stressed and paranoid she’ll be when she finds we’ve been keeping this from her for however long we have been?”

“I know, I know…but how can I tell her _now_?”

“James…”

“I don’t know. I’m just worried is all. She had an episode early in the summer. With the Clear-Head, she shouldn’t have gotten one so soon. What if she’s building up some sort of immunity to it? Can that happen?”

“Well…it’s dangerous to consume too many potions, of course. But the ingredients of Clear-Head aren’t physically altering. I don’t think it’s possible to build resistance to it…but it’s still a relatively new potion on the market.”

A heavy sigh followed. “It’s just one more year here. I figure when she’s out of Hogwarts, it’ll get better, yeah? There won’t be so much magical energy.”

“I hope so.”

A brief spat of silence followed, but it was quickly cut through by the same weary voice: “Merlin—I just wish this blasted cat would leave. She shouldn’t be having pets around her.”

“Oh, you’re right. Maybe you can move it over to the other bed?”

Grace felt the foot of her bed rise, but only for a brief moment. A low growl was heard, followed by a shriek. The weight at the end of her bed returned.

“Fucking—! What sort of cat is this?”

“Why did you grab it like _that_?”

“I barely touched it, Lily! Merlin…she’s gone and adopted a killer cat.”

“I don’t think it’s hers. I’ve seen that cat in the library now and again.”

“Don’t tell me it’s one of _Filch’s_—”

The voice faltered as a low creak emanated through the large wing. Grace strained her ears, trying to discern who might have entered or left.

“What was that?”

“I dunno. I don’t see anything. It was probably just Peeves roaming by…?”

“Merlin, I never realized how creepy this place was. Can you imagine spending the night here?”

“Yeah, I can actually, because that’s what we’ve been doing for the past five hours.”

“Right…”

“So?”

“So what?”

“So are you going to tell Grace when she wakes up?”

“Lily…it’s not a good time.”

“It never will be. And the sooner she knows, the better. I know it’ll be a difficult conversation, but she needs to know. You know we won’t have another chance to talk to her like now. We’ll be starting up patrols this weekend.”

A groan followed. “Agh—don’t remind me. I’m partnered with Prewett. Can you believe that?”

“Which one?”

“The one that keeps replacing my real wand with a joke wand and then ambushes me while I’m heading back from the loo.”

Quiet laughter filled the air.

“Lily!”

“Sorry—it’s not nice…but…”

“But what?”

“It’s probably karma for all the pranks you pulled in Hogwarts.”

“My pranks were harmless!”

“Harmless? Do you remember the Spring Ball incident?”

“That was Sirius’s idea, not mine—”

“Yeah, _sure_—”

“I’m serious!”

A pause followed, and then: “You’re Sirius? I thought you were James!”

“Lily!”

Grace finally found the willpower to pry her lids open. She blinked against the cool dark. The stone walls and long curtains were encased in shadows. She tilted her head to the side, and saw a put-out James sitting across from a smiling Lily.

“Could you guys keep it down?” she croaked out, wincing as a particularly painful throb flashed through her head.

“Gracie,” James said in surprise, and scooted his chair closer to her bedside. “One day and twenty hours—not bad. I’d say it’s a new record.”

“I’ve barely been conscious for thirty seconds, and you’ve already said something dumb. That’s a record for you, too,” she groaned.

“How are you feeling?” Lily asked softly. “Shall we fetch Pomfrey for some draughts?”

“No—I’m fine.” Her eyes settled on James. In truth, she did want a draught. But she wanted to find out what James was keeping from her more. “So…?”

“So?” James said, dumbfounded.

“_So…?_” she repeated with more emphasis.

“So—” Lily began, “—any idea what might have caused this episode?”

Grace sighed. “I just skipped a dose of Clear-Head by accident. Don’t worry—Pomfrey already gave me hell for it.”

At the foot of her bed, a lazing Cliodna perked up. She trotted up the bed and plopped herself onto Grace’s lap. Grace raised a hand and ran it over the cat’s deep black fur. Cliodna let out a low purr of content.

James moved his chair slightly back, eyeing the cat suspiciously. “Er—so that thing’s docile, then?”

“What? Of course she is. It’s Cliodna.”

“Oh,” Lily said in recognition. “Sirius’s brother’s cat?”

“Yeah,” Grace said flatly. “_Regulus_’s cat.”

“Why isn’t it with him?” James asked.

Grace’s gaze fled from him and settled on Cliodna’s huddled form. She wasn’t about to tell him all that’d been going on these past few weeks, not if he was planning on hiding something from her, too. Besides—what would she say? That Regulus abandoned her and his cat for seemingly no reason whatsoever? James would only extrapolate the worst.

“I dunno,” she shrugged. “Maybe Cliodna likes me better.”

James rubbed at his hand, where a thin set of scratches lay across his palm. “Didn’t like me very much…” he muttered.

“Why would she like someone as dunderheaded as you?”

He stared at her, unimpressed, and began to rise. “Well—looks like you’re right as rain, if you’re throwing around insults like that—”

Grace rolled her eyes. “Hey—before you leave, do you mind telling me where Mum and Dad are?”

He froze.

“Told you,” Lily sang quietly.

James floundered for a moment and settled back into his chair. “Er—they’re a bit busy.”

Grace shared a look with Lily. “With what? It must be well past midnight.”

“Oh—you know—” he scratched the back of his neck, “—they’re sleeping.”

“Sleeping,” she repeated dryly. “You expect me to believe that Mum and Dad—who once cancelled a meeting with the Senior Undersecretary to the Minister for Magic because I had an episode—didn’t come tonight because they’re too busy…sleeping?”

“You know how it is with the elderly. Early to bed, early to rise—”

“James,” Grace interjected tiredly. “Come on—what is it? If they’re _actually_ busy, I get it. I won’t be annoyed.”

He swallowed thickly. “No—it’s not that…it’s just… Look, you have to realize that Lily and I only came back five days ago. And it’s been something of a whirlwind these past few days—between Auror training and moving into our own flat, we’ve barely had a moment—”

“James,” she said again.

He took a deep breath. “Dad’s in St. Mungo’s.”

Her brows shot up. “Sorry—_what_?!”

“Dad is—”

“—in St. Mungo’s?” She was already scrambling up from her cot. Cliodna whined in annoyance from being displaced. “What do you mean by that? What happened? Oh, Merlin—did he trip over that loose cobblestone in front of Batty Bathilda’s? I _told_ her to fix it—”

“Calm down,” Lily said, easing Grace back down. “It’s nothing serious. The Healers aren’t entirely sure on the diagnosis yet, because your dad’s been giving himself a draught he made to make himself better and it’s been interfering with his symptoms. Right now, we think he might have picked up a Muggle illness—pneumonia, maybe.”

“New-ammonia?”

“Pneumonia,” James corrected smartly.

Grace glared at him. “How long have you known this for? How long has he been in there? How come none of you owled me? Can I go visit? Is Mum with him? How come _you_ aren’t with him?”

“It’s only been a few days,” James said weakly.

“We have been busy,” Lily said in his defense. “Between James’s training and flat hunting, along with helping some of our friends into hiding—it’s been a rough week, Grace. Your mum didn’t want to worry you until James and I got back, so she asked we keep it to ourselves. We’re sorry about that, but it does us no good to focus on what we can’t change.”

Grace knew that, but it still stung. How could James keep this from her for five whole days? How could he have let her frolic about Hogwarts worrying about Regulus and Sophia instead of her own _father_? What sort of familial loyalty was this?

“You should have told me,” she said thickly.

James struggled with something for a moment. “Well—Sirius and I both thought—”

Grace’s expression curdled in an instant. “Of course _Sirius_ would think this was the best course of action. It wasn’t like he gave Regulus a heads up when he walked out on him.”

James’s lips thinned. “We’re not talking about them. We’re talking about you, alright? Your Healers have made it explicitly clear that jarring news isn’t good for your condition, and with your tendency to get worked up over the smallest of things—”

“Yeah, because hearing that my brother decided to keep my own dad’s hospitalization a secret from me for nearly a week isn’t _jarring_ news, is it?”

“We were only trying to look out for you.”

“I don’t need you to do that. I can look out for myself. I’m not a _child_, James.”

“Yeah? Then stop acting like one.”

“James,” Lily said disapprovingly.

He deflated and ran a hand through his already disheveled hair. His gaze wavered away from Grace’s for a moment. “Look—things aren’t dire, alright? It’s just a…rather persistent case of the flu. We didn’t want you worry over nothing.”

“It’s not nothing,” Grace told him harshly. “It’s Dad.”

“I know that. And if things were really bad, you’d know,” James promised. “You’d be the first person I’d tell. But it’s fine. Everything is under control.”

He held her eyes for a moment—soft hazel against hazel, shining sun against sun—and Grace found she was too worn to hold onto her fury. She had only just woken from her paroxysm. Her bones ached tremendously; her temples throbbed furiously. She wanted to rest. She wanted to forgive James without forgiving him. She wanted her parents here—Mum with her patient eyes and Dad with his tender smile.

“You’ll tell me if anything else happens?” she pressed.

“Yes. Of course.”

“Okay,” she said, and sunk deeper into her cot.

James rose. “I’ll fetch a draught from Pomfrey. We’ve got work in the morning, so we won’t be there when you wake, but we can come back in the evening.”

“Don’t bother,” Grace said. “You should be with Mum and Dad—make sure they’re okay.”

James’s expression crumpled. “You’re sure?”

“Yeah.”

“I didn’t mean to keep it from you for so long. There just wasn’t a good time—”

“Can you get Pomfrey?” Grace cut in. She collapsed against her pillow, shutting her eyes. Her mind raged like a storm. She wanted to sleep, to dream away the pain. “I’m really tired.”

“Yeah…”

Pomfrey arrived in record time. After she administered a fresh batch of draught, James and Lily said their goodbyes and left. Grace settled deep into her blanket, eyes flickering to a close. The dull ache in her temples drifted away, and a cloudiness overcame her senses.

Soon, she was enveloped by sleep. Her dreams were dotted with strange visions—green snakes morphing into greener skulls, daggers of dark flitting through stormy skies, and her own face, shadowed and world-weary, staring back at her in the glossy reflection of black stone. She dreamt ofanimals she had never seen—horse-like creatures with large, eerie eyes and spindly ridges traveling down their backs—a barrage of silver-lined masks, and a lake too murky and grey to see through.

Eventually, all things collapsed into shadow and dust.

* * *

She awoke, again, to whispers, but these were less urgent. The voice that spoke was calm, patient—and perhaps just a touch absentminded. It was a voice that swayed against Grace’s ear like an ocean lapping against the shore. It was a voice that she was familiar with, that she had heard dither and scold and rant enthusiastically about all it loved.

It was Regulus.

“—and as the sun set over the horizon, washing all in gold, the Mage turned to his companion and said, ‘Do you see what I’ve done over there?’ The companion looked at the plot of freshly-turned soil. ‘What have you done?’ he asked. ‘I’ve planted a new miracle…’”

The words were touched with such wist and want that Grace found herself shrinking deeper into her cot. Her stomach churned. She had wanted Regulus to come back, but it felt all different now, knowing that he had left her behind these past few weeks. Did he think if he just sat at her bedside and read _The Miraculous Mage_ to her that things would just return to normal? Did he think this was enough for her to forgive him?

_Was_ it enough for her to forgive him?

Grace wanted things to return to normal, but this wasn’t how it was going to happen. She wanted more than some bedside reading. She wanted the person behind the act. She wanted the old Regulus; she wanted the bright look in his eye when he learned a new rune and the frustrated groan he made when Gamp accompanied them for dinner and the ridiculously complex plans he drew up when she needed help with a plan and—and—

She wanted the reading, too. But it was _more_ than that. It was the _voice_—how soft it was, how gentle, how unfailing in its tenderness.

She missed him so much.

She cracked her eyes open slightly, and saw that Regulus had sat himself in the chair James did last night. His face was slightly eclipsed by the copy of the book he was reading from, but Grace could still make out the feathery curl of his dark hair and the hollow of his cheek.

Her heart was battering against its cage. What was she supposed to say? Should she even say anything? What if she just pretended to stay asleep until he left?

_This is ridiculous_, she thought dimly. _I’ve been waiting and waiting to talk to him, and now I can’t find anything to say._

She searched a little while longer for a way to break the ice. A simple _hey_ wouldn’t do it. She wanted to strike him to his core. She wanted him to speak first. She wanted him to want her, too.

Thankfully, she didn’t have to wait long for Regulus to acknowledge her, because only a few seconds later, Cliodna leapt from the foot of Grace’s bed and towards Regulus. Her claws caught onto Regulus’s sleeve, causing him to drop his book onto the floor.

“Agh—Clio—!”

Grace propped herself up and looked down at the scene. Regulus was picking an irritated Cliodna off himself.

“Good girl,” Grace said appreciatively.

Cliodna purred deeply in response, and sprang back towards Grace. Regulus locked eyes with Grace for a moment before hastily looking away.

“Er—hello,” he began.

“Hi.”

He continued to stare holes into the linen of Grace’s sheet while Grace glared defiantly at his profile.

Regulus swallowed after a moment. “So—”

At the same time, Grace began, “What—”

They both stopped.

“Er—no, you go first,” Regulus offered.

“No, I want to hear what you have to say.”

“Oh—er—well…”

“Well?”

He opened his mouth once more, but before he could say anything, a voice pierced through the room: “Grace! There you are!” A copper-and-blue blur raced into the Hospital Wing at breakneck speed.

_Oh, Merlin_, Grace lamented quietly, _what did I ever do to deserve this?_

“Grace,” Sophia panted, coming to her side. “I knew something was off when you didn’t show at meals. I tried to ask Slughorn, but he doesn’t like me very much because of the Moaning Myrtle situation, so he didn’t tell me anything. But then I started asking around, and I heard you’ve got some sort of—er—disease—”

Grace soured.

“Condition,” Regulus corrected automatically.

Grace glanced at him sharply.

He withered under her gaze. “Er—I mean—”

Sophia looked to him and her eyes narrowed in on the badge pinned to his chest. “Oh, you’re the Prefect friend!” she exclaimed. She bounded over to Regulus and proceeded to force her hand into his, shaking it enthusiastically. “Hello, I’m Sophia Hornby. Grace told me you could take some points from Gryffindor. On the train ride here, Golightly—he’s a Gryffindor in my year and spends his spare time being a prat—anyway, he shot a curse at me that made antlers—” she stuck two fingers up by her head, imitating said antlers, “—spurt from my head, and it was very rude of him—”

“Wha—hold on—” he looked to Grace weakly.

“I sort of promised her that you’d take fifty points from Gryffindor, because these three boys were harassing her.”

“Why didn’t you report them to someone?” Regulus said immediately.

“What do you think I’m doing right now?” Grace said indignantly. “You’re a Prefect. I’m reporting it to you!”

“I meant when you were still on the train.”

“What does that matter?”

“Well, how can I take points a full two and a half weeks _after_ the incident? It won’t make sense.”

“Yes, it does,” Grace insisted. “It makes perfect sense to me. You found out about this situation a bit late, so of course the points would be taken away a bit late.”

“I didn’t _see_ this all unfold—”

“Yeah, but _I_ did—”

“But you’re not a Prefect!”

Grace’s lips set into a deep frown. “So? What’s that got to do with anything? Just because I’m not a Prefect, you don’t trust what I’ve got to say?”

Regulus’s shoulders fell. “You know that’s not what I meant—”

“Oh, you mean you don’t trust me _in general_?” Her voice was biting, challenging.

Regulus refused to rise to the bait. “You can’t just leap from point A to point Z like that, Grace! Of course that doesn’t mean I don’t trust you. But, really now, if I suddenly take fifty points from Gryffindor, there’ll be a whole inquiry—”

“So just tell them what happened! They’ll only find out the truth.”

“Well, _your_ version of the truth. Don’t you think those three boys will make up their own reasons?”

“So what? We should still try, shouldn’t we?”

“It’s just that…if there wasn’t a Prefect informed immediately, they’ll wonder why you’ve kept it to yourself all this while and if you were trying to hide something.”

“I’ve just been busy!”

“Busy?” he repeated dryly.

“Yeah,” she spat, narrowing her eyes at him. “Busy trying to figure out why _you’ve_ been so busy you can’t even be bothered to look my way anymore.”

His lips snapped shut.

“Er—are you two fighting?” Sophia asked nervously.

“What?” Regulus said, turning to her. “No, of course not.”

At the same time, Grace whipped to the young Ravenclaw and said, “We’re _not_ fighting.”

They both stopped and looked at one another, and the ire in Grace died down quickly. Regulus’s eyes were circled with deep purple bags, and his brows were drawn together wearily. She wasn’t mad at him, and she didn’t want to fight. She just wanted an apology. She just wanted to understand.

“Sophia,” Grace began, rubbing her hand across her forehead, “would you mind stopping by later?”

“Later?” the young girl echoed. “But I just got here. And what about the fifty points?”

“Fifty points from Gryffindor,” Regulus said immediately. He was still looking at Grace. “Of course I believe you.”

This time, it was Grace who couldn’t bear to hold his gaze. She looked away, focusing instead on Cliodna, who was lolling about at the foot of Grace’s bed.

“Thank you!” Sophia exclaimed immediately. “That’s incredible! I can’t wait to see Golightly and Preston’s faces during lunch—”

“Er—you’re welcome,” Regulus cut in. “Would you mind just leaving for a little while, though? Grace really does need to rest. Why don’t you come back in the evening?”

Sophia looked at him suspiciously before glancing back at Grace.

_Go_, Grace mouthed to her sternly.

“Okay,” Sophia agreed, “but can I bring Cluedo to play with you in the evening?”

Grace sighed, “You can bring Filch in the evening if you go right now.”

She made a face. “No, I’m definitely not doing that.”

With that, the Ravenclaw turned around and bounded away. Grace and Regulus followed her receding form until it disappeared from sight. Slowly, they turned back to one another.

Grace caught the silver of his eyes, and her heart twisted.

Underneath the skim that was her bitterness lay a deep and terrible want. She didn’t want to want him anymore, but she did. She wanted things to return to normal. She wished desperately for it: James and his infectious cheer back at Hogwarts, Lily tutoring her in the annals of the library, and Regulus by her side. She wanted Regulus, with his ever quiet, ever gentle voice, to tell her how much he’d missed her—just as much as she missed him, perhaps more. She wanted him to tell her he’d only gotten into a spat of trouble, that he’d sorted it now, that he was hers again. She wanted all this, and more. It burned within her, this desire, this reach for balance in the world. Why couldn’t things simply stay _put_? Why couldn’t she and Regulus remain in first year, when the days were bright and young, when there was no war, when Sirius had not left and cracked Regulus’s heart wide and deep, when Grace was not so fed up with it all?

“Why are you here?” she asked. In the cavernous room that was the Hospital Wing, in the deep and vast silence between her and Regulus, her voice seemed enormous.

“I was worried,” he said in that damned soft voice of his that made her heart lift despite itself. “When you didn’t come to dinner after Defense that day, I checked the kitchens, and—”

“So now you care about me, is it?”

He swallowed his words, and his eyes dropped from hers. She wished he hadn’t done that. She wanted his eyes on her. She wanted him to see her. Just once more, please. _Look at me._

“Things are complicated right now,” he said after a moment.

“Doesn’t seem very complicated to me,” she said immediately. “Seems to me like you had some sort of epiphany over the summer, realized I was a drag or something, and promptly fucked off to find some new _friends_.” She spat the last word out. It sounded wrong in her mouth—calling Yaxley and Rosier _friends_.

It sounded wrong to Regulus, too. She knew it, because he winced at her wording. “I—I’m sorry, but it’s just…” He trailed off, unsure of what to say, unsure of where to look, what to do. His eyes glanced amongst the tiles, traced the linen edge of Grace’s sheets, but never quite reached Grace herself. He wrung his hands, fingers tapping, restless.

“Why are you here?” Grace asked again. “You don’t want to see me.”

His eyes snapped to hers, and she had to swallow her heart down somewhere deep. His grey eyes shone in the hazy light of the wing. His brows were drawn tight. He looked at her like he couldn’t believe what had just come out of her mouth.

“I was worried,” he said again.

“You’re always worried,” she pointed out miserably.

“Then you shouldn’t be so surprised.”

Her brows rose. Regulus didn’t waver from her gaze this time, and she felt this was rather Gryffindor of him—to pretend everything was fine when it so clearly wasn’t, to shoulder whatever it was he was burdened with all by himself, to stick with the lie no matter how terrible it was.

Something had happened, and it was serious. She was sure of this now. And no matter how distant Regulus had been, how neglectful and callous he had seemed these past few weeks, she still trusted him. More than that, she wanted to trust him. She wanted the explanation, the twist, the happy ending. _I was only mean to fool them. I was only gone to protect you._ She burned for those words.

But Grace was not one to just sit and yearn. She reached for the things she wanted. She’d catapult herself into the air if it meant getting back the Regulus she knew.

“Reg…” she began, “…can’t you just tell me what’s going—”

The doors to the Hospital Wing swung open, and Regulus nearly tipped over his own chair in his haste to to see who had entered. Grace peered past Regulus’s frame and was surprised to see a very irritated Greengrass making her way into the Hospital Wing with no less than four textbooks and a dozen scrolls teetering in her arms.

“Er—” Grace started, gobsmacked.

“Yeah, it’s me,” Greengrass grumbled, thrusting the materials onto the foot of Grace’s bed. Cliodna yelped and ducked underneath the cot. “Slughorn’s assigned me to help you catch up on what you’ve missed since that redhead who used to help you graduated last year. He said he’d arrange something separately for Potions, since—”

“Yeah, okay, sure,” Grace said hurriedly, looking back to Regulus. He was staring at Greengrass as though she were a banshee. “Do you mind coming back later? I’m sort of in the middle—”

“Later?” Greengrass sniffed. “It took me hours to prepare all this—”

Regulus coughed suddenly and picked up his knapsack. “No—er—it’s fine. I was leaving anyway. I was just looking for Pomfrey is all,” he told Greengrass briskly, even though she had not asked. He began to make his way out of the Hospital Wing. “I suppose she’s busy. I’ll just pop by later.”

With that, he slunk beyond the doors and disappeared from sight. Grace gaped after him, mind ringing. _What the bloody hell was that?_ He’d come all this way and stayed to read his blasted book so early in the morning only to leave just because Greengrass had stopped by? Not even Sophia, forward and presumptuous as she was, had put him off!

Greengrass glanced back at Grace coolly. Her eyes swept over Regulus’s empty chair before narrowing in on a sulking Cliodna. “I see you’ve gotten custody of the cat,” she said dryly.

“What?”

“Nevermind.” She began to sift through the piles of lecture notes and homework. “Luckily, we don’t have homework for Defense. We’re meant to keep practicing the Patronus charm, but seeing as only a couple of people have gotten the hang of it—”

“Did you have to come in now?” Grace cut in crossly.

Greengrass’s brows rose ever so slightly. “Pardon?”

“I was finally getting through to him!” Grace groaned. She fell against her pillows and peered up at faint cracks that ran through the stone ceiling. “I’ve been waiting and waiting for a chance to talk to him, and I finally get it—and you choose _just_ that moment to barge in? Really?”

“Oh, I’m _so_ sorry my assistance is such an inconvenience to you.” Greengrass’s nostrils flared in fury. “This is so typical—when a _boy_ pays you even the slightest bit of attention, it’s suddenly the only thing that matters—”

Grace gaped at her. “What in Merlin’s name are you talking about? I’ve been worried about Regulus for weeks. Of course this matters. It certainly matters more than—” she glanced over the pile of work that Greengrass had painstakingly arranged for her, “—learning the knitting charm!”

“Worried for weeks?” Greengrass repeated. “I—are you really this daft?”

“Here we go with the insults,” Grace muttered. “Can’t you attack something other than my intelligence for once?”

“Yeah, I can actually—are you blind?” Greengrass spat. “Or are you so moonstruck that you refuse to see?”

Grace ground her teeth. “Why don’t you _edify_ me with some of your _infinite wisdom_, Greengrass?”

“Stop it,” she snapped. “You must know.”

“Sweet Circe—could you quit doing that?” Grace cried out. “You always act like you’re better than the rest, like you expect us to get on your level instead of coming down to ours. Can’t you just tell me for once?” Grace let out a staggered breath. “Do you know what’s happened? Do you know why Regulus has been hanging around Rosier and Yaxley so much?”

“It’s for the same reason Divination’s been cancelled this year,” Greengrass said tightly. “It’s for the same reason Lila left.”

Grace’s brows furrowed. “What do you m—”

“There’s a war going on, Potter!” Greengrass’s pale eyes were wide, her lips curled into a bitter grimace. “I knew you were spoiled, but I never thought you’d be so self-invested you wouldn’t notice that there’s a _war_ happening.”

Grace ignored the jab, if only because there was a matter more urgent to reach. She could put down her pride for a moment, just a moment. “But what has that got to do with Regulus?”

“He’s chosen his side.”

Grace felt like she’d been struck by a whip. Chosen his side? As in the same side as the Rosiers and Yaxleys? As in the side of the blood purists?

“I don’t believe you,” Grace said immediately, because that was impossible. Because Regulus had met Lily Evans and Dirk Cresswell, and he had never been bothered by them. Because Regulus had always looked up to Sirius, no matter how fraught their relationship had grown to be. Because she _knew_ Regulus; he did not have it in him to hate.

“Then don’t,” Greengrass said icily. She was already stalking away. “I only came to drop off your work, not get involved in a debate.”

The doors thudded to a close behind her. The Hospital Wing seemed to grow infinitely more empty. Grace felt like a speck in the center of a vast and unfeeling universe. Her eyes skittered all over the room before landing on the space Regulus had occupied by her bedside.

On the ground was the book Regulus had been reading—the copy of _The Miraculous Mage_ she had gifted him for his birthday back in first year. It was worn and well-loved, with pages dog-eared and bookmarked.

He had left it behind, just like he did her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed this one! Lots of things are going to come together & fall apart in the next chapter so be prepared... 
> 
> As always, thank you for the comments and kudos! ;)


	5. Skull

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dirk has some surprising news. Regulus is given one last chance. Grace seeks answers but only finds more questions.

Grace struggled to keep herself still as Pomfrey checked her over. It wasn’t that the matron was being slow about it. It was just that Grace wanted to _go_. She’d been stuck in this blasted Hospital Wing for far too long, and she was itching to breathe some fresh air, amble along from class to class, and, of course, see Regulus.

Because she would be seeing him today. And she didn’t just mean from a distance. She would see him besides her, at the Slytherin table in the Great Hall, because they had made up the other day—or were at least very close to making up. Regulus had come to her in the Hospital Wing that fateful day, which meant he wanted to see her. Which meant he _would_ see her. For breakfast.

If Grace could make it in time for breakfast.

“That Clear-Head truly works wonders,” Pomfrey marveled as the tip of her wand circled Grace’s forehead. After a moment longer, Pomfrey nodded her approval and set down her wand. “Not even the faintest _hint_ of magical strain.”

Grace beamed and immediately began to gather her knapsack. It was full to bursting, what with the mountain of homework Greengrass had left behind for her the other day.

“Now hold on,” Pomfrey said, halting the seventh-year, “we ought to have a proper talk about you missing your dose of Clear-Head that night.”

Grace shouldered her bag. “We’ve _already_ talked about it,” she began.

“I’d hardly count the brief chat we had before you collapsed a ‘talk,’” Pomfrey responded dryly. “Now, I’m more than happy to send you nightly reminders if it means you won’t forget.”

“I don’t need reminders, Madam Pomfrey. It was just one time. I had a lot on my mind, and I just forgot. It won’t happen again. I promise.”

A moment passed, and the elderly matron searched Grace’s eyes. “Well…it _was_ just once…” she agreed uncertainly.

“Yeah,” Grace said immediately, nodding frantically. “If it happens again, you can send me a singing telegram every hour, alright? Can I go now?”

Pomfrey snorted. “Oh, alright then. Merlin knows I wouldn’t be able to stop you anyway.” Grace turned to leave, and the matron called out sternly, “_But_—I want you back here next week just to make sure everything’s fine, okay?”

Grace was already halfway out of the wing. “Yeah, ‘course!” she called back absently, dashing towards the Great Hall.

She was eager to finally have a _proper_ breakfast at the Slytherin table. She had spent far too many days sitting at the near edge of the table, alongside Greengrass or Gamp, and she was more than prepared to reclaim her rightful position besides Regulus. Her mind rolled with possibility as she made her way into the Great Hall. The area was noisy enough that the two could hold their own conversation without any chance of being overheard. Regulus could explain why he’d been staying afar all this while. He could finish whatever it was he had meant to say before Greengrass burst in.

Her face fell as she rounded on the Slytherin table that was pushed along the back wall of the hall. She spotted Regulus immediately, amidst what was slowly becoming his usual cluster of meal companions: the Rosier twins, Yaxley, and—Merlin—even _Gibbon_ was there. Had he always sat there?

Grace wrinkled her nose slightly, but her surefire stride didn’t falter in the slightest. She approached the gaggle of pure-bloods, and reached out her hand, intending to politely tap Regulus on the shoulder and inform him of her arrival.

Unfortunately for her, Gibbon caught sight of her before Regulus could.

“Seems like you’ve bumped your head a bit too hard this time round, Potter,” Gibbon bit, raising a brow. He pointed lazily down the end of the table. “I think your spot’s further down.”

Grace’s hand slunk back to her side. Her eyes narrowed at Gibbon. “Actually, I—”

Myrcella Rosier let out an ungrateful groan of annoyance. “Look what you’ve gone and done, Gibbs. Once she starts speaking, she won’t stop. Salazar—sometimes I think she’s worse than Gamp.”

Grace bit the inside of her cheek so hard she was surprised she didn’t draw blood. “I just—”

“_Sometimes_ you think she’s worse than Gamp?” Rosier said to his sister. “Isn’t it clear she’s the worse of the two?”

“At least Gamp comes from a respectable family,” Gibbon threw in.

Wrath bubbled at the base of Grace’s throat. She was ready to hex the entire table, but then she glanced at Regulus, and her fury gave way to confusion. It looked as though he hadn’t heard anything that had been said in the past couple of minutes. He was nursing a goblet of pumpkin juice slowly and deliberately, eclipsing his face from sight.

Wasn’t he going to say _anything_?

“Is she just going to _stand_ there?” Myrcella stage-whispered to her brother.

Grace looked away sharply.

“Should have guessed you’d be too thick to understand simple English,” Yaxley sneered at her. “Must be all that Muggle blood in your family tree.”

She scowled, but before she could fling a retort his way, someone beat her to it: “Why don’t you just shout that out a little louder, Yaxley?” Greengrass said loftily, walking past the table. “I’m sure Dumbledore would love to hear.”

Yaxley’s jeer gave way to a deep-set frown. Grace used the momentary distraction to dash away from the group. She stuck herself to Greengrass’s side, and looked back at Regulus hesitantly. He was still sipping at his somehow inexhaustible goblet of pumpkin juice.

Had he even _noticed_ her?

“Er—thanks,” Grace said awkwardly after she tore her gaze away.

Greengrass didn’t even glance at her. “Don’t thank me. I didn’t do it for you.”

And before Grace could ask who she did do it for, the auburn-haired girl grabbed a pastry from one of the many platters scattered along the table and sped out of the Great Hall altogether.

Grace stood amongst the sea of students for a moment, staring blankly at where Greengrass had just stood. She heard a bubble of laughter peal from Regulus’s end of the Slytherin table. What in Godric’s good name could they possibly be laughing about? Her ridiculous attempt to speak to Regulus? Her questionable ancestry?

Grace sat heavily at the other end of the table. She scooped some eggs on a plate and viciously stabbed at the yolk with a fork.

Grace had never liked words. She didn’t like the way they could conceal and confuse—how people could just play with words, get them to say one thing while meaning something entirely different. Words could twist and turn. Words could be said and taken back. Grace knew this all too well. She remembered being told, time and time again, that her condition would wane away, that it would only be a matter of time until she could live her life like any other kid. She remembered being twelve years old and crying in her mother’s arms after the words _it’s chronic_ had fled from her Healer’s lips. She remembered how impossible those words had seemed, how terrible they were.

So—no—she didn’t like words. She much preferred action. What was a word compared to a hug? To a caress? To even a single _look_?

So, when Greengrass had said, ‘_He’s chosen his side_,’ of course Grace didn’t believe it. Because she had just seen Regulus. He had sat down at her bedside and read to her. He had held her eyes in his, and Grace knew in that moment—she just _knew_—that he would never leave her willingly. She had trusted that moment, that single action.

Should she not have?

She cast another long, dark look at the other end of the table. Regulus had, at long last, pried his goblet away from his face. He wasn’t exactly _laughing_ along with the rest of the gits seated there, but it didn’t seem like he was having a particularly bad time, either. He just seemed…bored, like he didn’t care what they said—good or bad.

For the first time, Grace began to seriously consider the possibility that Greengrass was right.

* * *

She arrived at Potions in a foul mood.

“_Graven hasket_,” Dirk greeted her as she approached their work bench.

She glared at him. “Is that another Gobbledegook insult?”

He watched with wide eyes as she scowled and let her knapsack fall to the floor with a thud. “Er—” he began unsurely, eyeing her hesitantly, “—well, a lot of the greetings turn out to be insults, believe it or not…”

She merely grunted in response, and shifted slightly to the right, watching Regulus from her periphery. He was paired with Rosier, of fucking course. They were chatting; or, well, _Rosier_ was chatting, and Regulus was allowing him the wonderful _privilege_ of actually listening—something Grace, it seemed, was not worthy of receiving.

“Feel free to disregard this advice,” Dirk whispered to her lowly, “but I don’t think Slughorn will appreciate you glaring murderously at other students—”

She whipped back to him. “I’m not _glaring_!” she snapped.

He put his hands up in defense. “Oh, my bad—I was simply referring to your _intense_ staring—”

“Not staring!”

“Alright—then stop just _happening_ to have your eyes _wide open_ in that general direction, then?”

She frowned, and simply turned back to Regulus’s workbench. To her utter horror, she caught sight of Rosier pointing at _her_.

“Oh, fuck,” she said under her breath, turning back to Dirk. She craned her neck away from the duo, hiding behind her thick tangle of hair.

Dirk snorted. “Yeah, because that’s not suspicious.”

She narrowed her eyes at him but before she could say anything, a piercing laugh cut through the chatter of the Potions classroom. Grace inclined her head to the side slightly, and she saw that Rosier was _still_ pointing at her—and fucking _laughing_. Her lips twisted into a sour, puckered grimace. She had half a mind to get her wand out right there and then and curse him ten ways to Tuesday. Merlin, as if it wasn’t enough that he’d stolen her best friend. He had to go ahead and poke fun at her, too—

“Ah, ignore it,” Dirk waved off nonchalantly. “It’s not you he’s trying to rile up. Rosier’s been trying to get under my skin ever since he found out.”

Her fury flickered out in an instant. She glanced at Dirk, brows furrowed. “What? What do you mean get under _your_ skin? What happened?”

Dirk quirked a brow. “Oh, you can’t be serious.”

Her irritation returned. “I’ve been in the _Hospital Wing_, Dirk. Do you expect me to keep up with the rumor mill while I’m _unconscious_?”

“No—but—” Dirk stopped and simply rolled his eyes. He puffed his chest out and gestured at his robes. “Notice anything different…?”

Grace’s eyes travelled down, and she froze as she caught sight of a gleaming gold and black badge pinned to his chest. In scrawling script were the words _Head Boy_.

She gaped at him. “Oh, Merlin—_how?_ What did Kennedy do?”

“His sister was murdered.” Dirk’s tone was so casual and nonchalant that it seemed, for a moment, that he was simply commenting on the weather.

Grace stilled. Had she misheard him? “W—what? What did you just say?”

“His sister was a Hit Witch,” Dirk explained, dropping his voice. “There was a clash with some Death Eaters in Knockturn Alley. It was a sting operation gone wrong; the Ministry’s getting a lot of heat for it.”

“That’s awful,” Grace breathed. Her stomach twisted. “So Kennedy’s just dropped out?”

“I think his parents are trying to get out of the country or something.”

“Merlin, that’s…” She couldn’t find an adequate way to finish, couldn’t think of any word to describe the pure horror of what Kennedy was going through, so she let her sentence bleed into silence.

“So, since he’s gone, Dumbledore’s chosen me for Head Boy.” Dirk smiled, although it was a little strained. “It was a little surprising, truth be told. But Slughorn and Sprout both recommended me, and I suppose the pool of candidates was rather small, considering how many students chose not to return this year.”

“I—” Grace started and then stopped, choosing to shake her head. She began pulling her class materials from her bag. “The world’s really gone to shit,” she said under her breath, “if you’ve been appointed as Head Boy.”

“Oh, come on,” Dirk said good-naturedly. “I’ll be a wonderful Head Boy. You’ll see. I’ve already got an agenda.” He rummaged through his bag for a moment, and then pulled out a long scroll of parchment. “It’s all here: I’m going to introduce snacks to the Hogwarts menu—fish and chips, things like that. And there’s this whole plan with roller blades I’ve got. I thought they’d help to add a little cheer back in—”

“Dirk,” she cut in, “were you a Prefect before all this?”

“What? No, of course not.”

“Well…you do realize you’re going to have to do patrols and hold meetings with all the Prefects and stuff? There’s a lot of administrative stuff you’ve got to do.”

“Yeah, it’ll be easy,” he waved off. “Administration is in my blood. My mum’s a secretary in a law firm. I can do this. I’m dependable, _responsible_—”

“Yeah,” Grace muttered, “responsible for my headache.”

“See, it’s _that_ negative attitude I’m going to fix during my tenure as Head Boy,” Dirk said confidently. An idea suddenly struck him. “Hey—you could be Head Girl! We can pull so many schemes—”

“How can I be Head Girl? Did Banerjee leave, too?”

“No…but I figure if I can impeach her, then—”

“You can’t _impeach_ a Head Girl, Dirk!”

“What do you mean I can’t? What if she’s done something wrong?”

“Then I suppose Dumbledore would replace her, but _you_ definitely can’t. Merlin, Dirk…”

Dirk’s grin slowly receded into a tight frown. “Great, so you’re saying I’m stuck with Banerjee? She’s been vetoing all my ideas. How is this supposed to work out? My whole plan was to replace her with someone more agreeable, and get all the stuff on here—” he slapped his hand against his parchment, “—instated.”

Grace gave him a withering look.

“Don’t give me that face,” Dirk protested. “Usually you’d be all over this. Has your stint in the Hospital Wing put you off or something?”

“Or something,” she muttered under her breath.

And before Dirk could question further, Slughorn popped inside the room and clapped his hands together cheerfully. “Ah, good to see you all again,” he said, waddling over to the center of the room.

He doled out some instructions about the Draught of the Living Death, and promptly began to make rounds towards his favorite students. Among them was Regulus, of course. Slughorn stopped by his cauldron and smiled encouragingly at the bubbling concoction.

“What a joke,” Grace muttered. “He’ll likely just give them full marks, even though they’re bound to mess up on _something_.” She knew for a fact that Rosier hardly put any effort into classes, and Regulus often added a few more stirs than necessary to his potions, thinning them out. “Meanwhile—” she snipped, “—we’re here, slaving away, actually brewing _correctly_—”

Dirk bobbed his head up and down. “Yeah, yeah—” he watched Grace viciously slice through her sopophorous bean, “—hey, so how about you let me do that before you fling the knife at Slughorn?”

She threw her knife down onto the cutting board and fell back against her seat. She crossed her arms over her chest tightly. Dirk took over with far more diligence than was usual.

“Wanna talk about it?” he asked.

“No.”

“Okay… What about now?” He glanced at her expectantly.

Grace avoided his gaze. She exhaled, and her shoulders dropped. She tipped her chin up, and her eyes roved over the cobwebbed ceiling.

Merlin—what was she even supposed to say? That she had _thought_ she and Regulus were actually getting somewhere, but it turned out it was all in her head? Dirk would laugh his head off at her. _Why would you think that?_ he’d guffaw. _Haven’t you noticed?_

That was the problem, wasn’t it? That she didn’t fucking _notice_.

“Greengrass is mad at me,” she told Dirk after a moment.

It wasn’t the problem, not really. But it still upset her, because she hadn’t meant to vex Greengrass so thoroughly the other day. She’d only wanted Greengrass to butt out for a moment.

“So apologize,” Dirk said simply.

She frowned at him. “Why do you assume I did something wrong?”

“Even if you didn’t, sometimes it’s best to just apologize and move on.”

She huffed to herself. Sometimes she forgot Dirk was a Hufflepuff. Of course he’d see it that way. It’d be easier to just bend her pride for a moment, too; it required less work in the long run.

But Grace still wouldn’t do it.

If she was going to apologize to Greengrass, she would have to do it without words—with some sort of present. The problem was, of course, that Grace knew next to nothing about Greengrass’s likes or dislikes. Grace felt she couldn’t be faulted for that. What was she supposed to do? Ask insipid questions like, _What’s your favorite color?_ or _What are your hobbies?_ Greengrass would sooner kiss a hippogriff than engage in small talk like that with Grace.

The only thing Grace remembered Greengrass being even remotely interested in was her spellbound sheet. But what was the point in giving that to Greengrass? She had only wanted it for Colvin, but that was impossible to do now since Colvin had gone into hiding.

Grace looked at Dirk. It was impossible unless…

“I have a question,” she announced.

“Cool. Me too—how come these beans are so _hard_?” Dirk grunted as he pressed the edge of his knife into the thick hide of the bean.

“Do people in the Smugglers’ Society keep in contact with Muggle-borns who have gone into hiding?”

“Er—sort of. Muggle-borns who used to be a part of the Society and have graduated tend to keep in contact with each other. If a Muggle-born’s gone into hiding, there are always a handful who know where, so they can smuggle supplies to them and stuff.” Dirk dropped the knife and wiped at the thin sheen of sweat forming above his brow. “Why’re you asking?”

Grace picked up the knife and began to cut into the bean. “I want to smuggle something. Colvin—you know Colvin, right?”

“She was the one who said I ought to do something about my hair in fifth year.” Dirk patted at his billowy hair. It resembled a bird’s nest. “Honestly…she’s not wrong.”

“She’s gone into hiding this year, because her dad’s a Muggle-born. I want to get something to her. It’s just a piece of parchment. Do you think that’s possible?”

Dirk shrugged. “Maybe. I could ask around.”

It was better than a flat-out no.

She nodded. “Thanks.”

“Sure. Was that what you were all mad about?”

“I’m not _mad_,” she protested.

“You were about to plunge that very knife into old Sluggy’s heart,” Dirk pointed out.

“I’m just frustrated,” she defended weakly. “I’ve been trying to talk to someone…but they’re just not listening.”

“Then give them a reason to listen?”

She pursed her lips. “Wow, what a _simple_ solution. Truly you’re a paragon of wisdom, Dirk—”

“I’m serious,” he insisted. “When Abbott—”

“Here we go with Abbott,” Grace murmured.

“—doesn’t want to hear me out about the benefits of staplers, I try to make it interesting so she has no choice _but_ to listen. That’s why I composed that entire rock opera in fourth year. She had _tears_ in her eyes by the end of my performance.”

“That’s because you shone all those bright lights in her face.”

He considered this. “Yeah…well, it still worked, didn’t it? She still listened.”

Grace felt that was debatable, but she didn’t question it. “I can’t just _do_ a rock opera, and I don’t want to. I just want to _talk_.”

“Alright…well, if you don’t want to interest them into talking to you, why don’t you just scare them?”

“Scare them?”

“Yeah. Scare them into talking with you. Don’t give them a choice.”

She raised a brow at him. “That’s wildly Slytherin of you.”

“Ah, what can I say? I learn from the best.” He gave her a pointed look.

Grace rolled her eyes and reached into her bag, pulling out a spare piece of parchment. What Dirk had given her was, for once, solid advice. She knew precisely how to ‘scare’ Regulus into talking with her. He had shown up to the Hospital Wing just the other day. He was clearly still worried for her, at least where her paroxysm was concerned.

Quickly, she scribbled out her message: _I’ve got to talk to you. It’s about my Hywell’s. Something’s gone wrong. Can you meet me in the Room after dinner?_

After a quick once-over, Grace tossed aside her quill and folded up the scrap of paper as soon as the ink dried. She folded the parchment up into a small square and nestled it into the palm of her hand.

This was a mean trick, and Grace knew it. But she had had quite enough now. She would wrestle the truth out of him one way or the other.

“Do you mind if I botch this potion?” she asked Dirk, peering down at the blue-grey mixture he was steadfastly stirring.

He let go of the ladle immediately. “Oh, be my guest,” he said magnanimously, leaning away from the cauldron. “It’s about time something interesting happened in this class.”

Grace rustled through her potions kit for a moment, trying to find something that might counteract any one of the ingredients in their draught. She needed something that could cause a reaction big enough that it would distract the entire class. She needed something that could obscure her. She needed something that would get her to Regulus.

“Aha!” she said, pulling out a vial of billywig stings. She dropped a few into her cauldron, gave a quick stir, and then added a few more for good measure.

The effect was instantaneous: a thick smoke began to waft from her cauldron, engulfing the room. Grace twisted around, and spotted Regulus’s brow furrow as he took in the darkening classroom.

“Who did—” Slughorn began, and then his eyes caught sight of Grace’s cauldron. He opened and closed his mouth several times before finally letting out a very cross, “Miss Potter! Detention—!”

He tried to reach for Grace’s cauldron, perhaps to reverse the effects of the smoke, but the classroom was already too heavily obscured. Slughorn missed her workbench by an arm’s length and went crashing into their neighbor’s station.

Under the cover of the vapor, Grace made a mad dash for Regulus. She stumbled into him, grabbing onto his upper arm. She pressed her note into his hands—or at least she tried to. He wheeled around frantically, and tried to push her away.

“Take it,” she hissed at him. “I didn’t just get a fortnight of detention for nothing.”

He stilled when he realized it was only her. And although Grace could hardly see him (all she could make out was the edge of his hand and the curl of his dark hair), she could tell he was anxious. She released his arm. She took his hand in both of hers and curled his fingers around her note.

She softened. “_Please_ take it,” she whispered.

He did.

* * *

Regulus was already in the Room when she arrived.

The Room had taken on the form of a small library. There were bookshelves shoved along all four corners of the room, with faintly flickering torches hung above them. A small table sat in the center, two polished chairs resting on either side of it.

“Looks nice,” she commented absently, taking a seat.

Regulus, who had been pacing worriedly along the furthest wall, whipped around when he heard her. His eyes—the softest of greys, like the downy fuzz of a hatchling—found hers quickly, and he rushed over.

“Finally—”

“Finally?” she said slightly. “I’m on time. You came early.”

He ignored her and took the opposite seat. His eyes searched over her frantically. “What happened? Did Pomfrey send you over to St. Mungo’s today? You know—I thought it was strange you had an episode this early into the year. Usually, it’s around exams that—”

She shifted in her seat. “Er—actually, nothing happened. I’m fine.”

The words died in Regulus’s throat. “What? But—what did your Healer say?”

“Nothing…because I didn’t see her…?”

He still didn’t understand. His brows furrowed. “So it was Pomfrey who made the diagnosis? That doesn’t seem like—”

She swallowed her sigh. Merlin, he could be dense sometimes. “No, Regulus. Nothing’s happened. I’m fine. I just wanted to talk to you.”

“You just wanted…hold on—” he shook his head lightly, “—what was that note all about?”

“I made it up!” she burst. She leaned further back into her seat. “I’ve been trying to figure out how to talk to you, but you’ve been avoiding me at every turn. I figured it might be time for something drastic, so I—”

“Wait, wait,” he interrupted, “so you _lied_ to me?”

Grace scoffed. “What? As if you haven’t been lying to me?”

His lips pursed. “I haven’t lied to you at all—”

“You know that I count hiding the same as lying, Regulus.” Both required concealing the truth. Both counted on someone else’s ignorance.

Regulus exhaled. His eyes flitted away from Grace’s. “I can’t believe this…” he muttered under his breath.

Grace leaned forward and propped her chin with her palm. “Frankly, I’m surprised you didn’t see this coming. Surely you didn’t think I’d just ignore your abrupt change in personality?”

“Of course I thought it might happen.” He rose from his seat and began to stalk towards the door. “I just _hoped_ it wouldn’t.”

“No—Regulus, wait—!”

She couldn’t just let him leave again. It was more than just finding out what had happened. It was more than just knowing. It was having him here. It was having him close again.

She reached for him. Her fingers clasped around his left wrist, and the effect was so sudden and abrupt that Grace barely registered it until it was over. Regulus wheeled around and ripped his hand away from her like she was nothing more than an open flame. His eyes—wide, panicked—caught onto hers, and he stuffed both his hands into the pockets of his robes.

Grace’s hand fell limply against her side. She swallowed thickly. “I just want to help,” she said, tone low and hushed, afraid that if she spoke any louder her voice might splinter and break. “I just want us to talk again. It’s only been a few weeks, and I’ve been miserable without you. And I know you’ve been miserable, too. You don’t _like_ Rosier and Yaxley. I know you don’t.”

He refused to meet her eyes. “It’s not about what I like and what I don’t, Grace.”

“Something happened, right?” She wished she were more Gryffindor than she was. She wished she sounded more bold and valiant than she did. Instead, she simply sounded desperate. “Something changed—with your mum, or…or—_something_. Can’t you just tell me what? If you’re in trouble, I can help you—”

“I don’t want that,” he said, and he sounded just as helpless as Grace did. “I don’t want you to help me. I don’t want your pity.”

“I’m not falling for that trick again,” she said. “You’re trying to be mean, but you don’t have it in you.”

Silence fell between them. Regulus’s gaze wandered about the Room, but Grace’s was stuck steadfastly on him.

“I’m—Grace, I’m serious about this,” he croaked out after a moment. “Of course I want us to talk again, too. Of course I miss you. But things are…complicated. I don’t want to drag you into this. You shouldn’t have to deal with my problems.”

“What are you talking about?” she demanded. “When have we ever kept our problems to ourselves?”

When had they ever separated themselves from each other like this? Their problems were each other’s. Grace’s paroxysms was something Regulus had been looking into since first year. Regulus’s tense relationship with Sirius was something Grace had been trying to solve for years now.

“It’s different this time,” Regulus said. “I don’t want to bring you into this.”

For a moment, it seemed like he might elaborate further. But then he closed his mouth and simply looked away again. Grace’s chest was tight. She wanted this to be over, but he was making it so difficult. His words were caught somewhere between lie and truth. He was being cagey on purpose, and Grace _despised_ it.

“Okay, fine,” she said, voice taut. “I’ll play this game.”

“Grace—”

“You’re pushing me away to protect me? Is that it, Regulus? You’re ignoring me because you think that’s better for me? You’re making decisions for me because you don’t think I can make them for myself?”

“I don’t want to argue with you,” he said wearily.

“Too late.”

“I—” he sighed and ran a hand through his hair, tousling his neat part. “What do you want from me, Grace? There are so many ways this can go. Do you want me to throw your words back at you, too? Do you want me to ask you why it has to be _you_ I have to be protecting? Do you want me to ask you why I can’t be doing this for someone else? Do you want me to ask why it’s always got to be about you?”

Grace bit the inside of her cheek. “I just want to know what’s going on. I just want to understand. I don’t—” she struggled with her words for a moment. She didn’t want to be bitter all the time. She didn’t want to watch Regulus from the corner of her eye all day long, constantly wondering why he wasn’t choosing her. “I don’t want to hate you, Regulus. Give me a reason not to hate you.”

He stilled, shoulders falling. “Fuck,” he said, and the single syllable was so distraught and distressed that Grace felt her very heart twist. “Why’d you have to do this?”

A million responses ran through Grace’s mind: _Oh, is your best friend not allowed to care about you? Did you want me to be less myself or something? Did you just want to mope around for the rest of your life?_

But to speak would mean to break the moment. Regulus’s lips were parted. The words were just peeking out of his mouth. She was so _close_. He just needed a push. He just needed a reminder.

She reached for him again, slower this time, and clasped her hand around his right one. She gave his hand a light squeeze. She would admit that—yes—in the beginning, she had planned to guilt him into revealing what it was he up to. But how could she continue with that plan? When he looked as anguished as he did?

She only wanted for them to be open with each other again. She only wanted his presence—his ramblings about obscure historical facts and his waspish retorts to anyone who dared bring up his family and his quiet concentration whenever they played Wizarding Chess.

Regulus looked at their entwined hands with an unfathomable expression. “Shouldn’t you hate me?” he said bitterly. “I ignored you on the train ride. I never came to your defense when Yaxley or Rosier said something. You keep reaching, Grace, and I keep pulling away. Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”

“You came to the Hospital Wing,” she pointed out. _Doesn’t that mean something?_

He freed his hand from Grace’s. He stretched his fingers out. “I didn’t know you were conscious yet,” he said. “I meant to be gone before you came to.”

“You came here tonight,” she continued. “You thought I wasn’t well, and you came. Do you really expect me to believe that you’d ever willingly cut me off, Regulus? When I said I don’t want to hate you, I only meant—I meant it like…I don’t want to be resentful. I don’t want to keep feeling so irritated every time I see you with Rosier and Yaxley. I won’t—I won’t _actually_ hate you.”

“But if I keep hanging out with Rosier and Yaxley? If I never explain why? If I never speak to you again?”

“I still won’t hate you,” she said stubbornly.

His lips wavered. “That’s ridiculous. Of course you will.”

“_You’re_ ridiculous. Why would I hate you then? It’s clear you don’t actually want to ignore me. You’re just…doing it for something—or someone. I don’t know. If you can’t tell me…fine.” Grace let out a breath. “I just—I just wanted you back…but if I can’t have that, then I can’t have that. If you’re worried about appearances, we can just meet in secret—”

He shook his head. “No, Grace…”

“You know full well I won’t give up so easily,” she said valiantly.

He did know. She saw it in the silver of his eyes, the tense of his jaw. His right hand curled around his left wrist. Silence enveloped the room. Grace didn’t know what was going to happen next, and the uncertainty frightened her. She was not used to not knowing with Regulus. She nearly always knew what Regulus was going to do, what he was going to say, how he was going to act. If he was in a foul mood, he’d grow sullen and withdrawn. If he was happy, he’d smile softly and talk nonstop about whatever it was that was responsible.

She couldn’t tell what he was feeling right now. She hardly knew what she was feeling right now.

“What will it take?” he asked after a moment.

She frowned. “What?”

“What will it take for you to give up?” he said quietly. “What will it take for you to hate me?”

She didn’t know. She didn’t know if she had it in her to hate him. She didn’t know why they were even discussing this.

“Regulus…”

“I have to show you something.”

And he stretched out his left arm, palm up. His right hand picked at the hem of his sleeve. Slowly, surely, Regulus revealed the pale underside of his wrist.

Grace stared at him, brows furrowed. She didn’t understand what it was he was showing her until she saw the underside of a tail—some dark-inked, scaly thing—reveal itself on his skin. The confusion fell from her face in an instant. The pit of her stomach twisted and turned violently.

Regulus’s sleeve climbed higher and higher up, until it wasn’t just a tail Grace was looking at. It was a snake—slight and sinister—shifting around a skull. The light of the Room seemed to grow dimmer. Grace’s heart lurched and caught in her throat. She thought she might be sick.

“That’s not…” she began weakly. She tore her eyes away from the Mark (because that was what it was, wasn’t it—the Dark Mark?) and settled on Regulus’s pale, peaky face. “Please tell me it’s not—”

“It is.”

And she was looking into the stormy grey of his eyes, but all she could see was that terrible, slimy snake crawling on his arm. All she could see was the harsh green of that craggy skull above the townhouses in Hogsmeade.

“Grace?” Regulus probed quietly.

She simply stared at him. She didn’t know what to say. No—that was a lie. There were so many things swirling in her brain. _Not you. How could it be you?_ How could it be soft, sweet Regulus? Who started sitting next to Dirk during Slug Club meetings after Grace had been booted? Who bought Lily an engagement present after Grace had written to him with the news? Who had produced a Patronus—an actual, corporeal Patronus—barely a week ago?

She didn’t know how to say any of this to him. Lucky for her, Regulus decided to take it upon himself to speak.

“I know I’ve done something awful—”

It was, quite possibly, the worst thing to say to her, and Grace privately wondered if he knew that. If this was some trick he was playing on her. If he wanted to rile her up, because, if so, he had damn well succeeded. Rage split Grace down to the bone. Fury crawled up her throat.

“Fat lot of good that does you now,” she snapped, “realizing you’ve done something _awful_. What the fuck, Regulus? No—really, now—what the fuck is that? That’s real, is it? That’s actually—”

“Grace—”

“When did this happen?” she continued. Her voice was louder than his. It always had been. “When did you get that? During the summer, I bet. That’s why you weren’t returning my letters, is it? You were too busy gallivanting with a bunch of psychopaths.”

Her jaw trembled as she spoke. Her hands were curled into two tight fists, nails digging into the soft underside of her palm.

_Traitor_, Grace thought venomously, and the weight of that word was a terrible thing.

“Grace,” he pleaded. “You have to understand I didn’t want this, but it is what—”

She couldn’t hear him. Her mind was going a mile a minute. She couldn’t care less about the excuses. She knew what he was going to say. _My family, Grace. My family wanted me to._ Sod his fucking family. He should have said _no_. He should have fought them back. He should have left them.

Unwillingly, Greengrass’s icy voice slipped into her mind: _Are you blind? Or are you so moonstruck that you refuse to see?_

Grace was a fool. A fucking _fool_.

“Rosier and Yaxley, too?” she cut in sharply. “They did the same as you?”

He didn’t respond, but he didn’t need to.

“And you three—you’ve just been running around in the castle with, with—” she pointed at that _thing_ on his wrist, “—_that_ and doing what, exactly? Recruiting pure-bloods when Dumbledore’s not looking? Torturing Muggle-borns when you’ve got the spare moment? Sneaking—” she stopped and swallowed thickly. Her eyes widened, and she looked at Regulus like she was seeing him for the first time. “Fucking—the Hogsmeade Horror…you were—that was _you_.” The shattered windows and the rush of dark smoke and the green snake and skull shimmering in the sky—he had been there for it. He had _caused_ it.

He winced. “You weren’t supposed to be there.”

“You were—oh, of fucking course—the Cushioning Charm—”

“You weren’t supposed to be there…” he repeated.

“Yeah, well I was,” she said, voice harsh. “What happened there, Regulus? Didn’t want me to cut myself on the glass? Didn’t want my nasty blood-traitor blood to get all over the place? Suddenly you _cared_ about me and—”

“Of course I _care_,” he snapped back for the first time. He leaned forward, nostrils flaring. “Why do you think I sent Cliodna to keep an eye on you?”

She was struck by that, but only for a moment. “Oh—is that supposed to make me feel better?” Grace snarled. “_Thank you_, for sending your fucking _cat_ to babysit me while you frolicked around with kidnappers and torturers. Made me feel really safe, that did, knowing I had a _cat_ to protect me.”

She finished, chest heaving, and looked at Regulus, expecting some comeback—more screaming, more insults, more half-baked excuses and attempts to seem better than he really was. Instead, she got nothing more than a cool glance. Regulus’s eyes flickered over her for a brief moment before looking away. He turned around and stepped towards the door.

She grabbed him by the collar and pulled him back.

“Where in Merlin’s name do you think you’re going?” she barked.

He ripped himself away from her. “We’re done here.”

“No, we most definitely are not! You can’t just leave without explaining—”

“Explaining _what_?” he cried out. “What do you want to hear? Yes, I took the Mark during the summer, Grace. Yes, my mother wanted me to. No, I didn’t fight her on it. Do you want to know why? Is that the explanation you’re waiting for?”

His voice was sharp and needling. It reminded Grace of herself.

“I don’t care about that. Nothing you say could ever justify this,” she said coldly. “I want to know why you showed that to me. Why did you tell me? Why did you even _come_ here, knowing what you did?”

Because surely he knew she wouldn’t take it well, right? Surely he knew the risk it would put him in.

The question caught him by surprise. He blinked, and looked away. “Because—” his voice got caught in his throat somewhere, and died out completely, nothing more than a weak flame snuffed out by a light breeze.

“What?” Grace’s voice was taut but strong. “Because you _care_?” she sneered. “Because you care so much about me that you decided to go out into the world and kill people for a madman?”

“Stop that,” he said, but his voice was hushed and muted now. He looked at Grace again, stricken, like he couldn’t believe the moment was still rolling, like he couldn’t bear to hear his own thoughts said out loud. “I told you because you should know the truth about me.”

“Why?” _Why now? Why like this?_

“Because you’re my best friend.”

She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry at that. A strange feeling burst in her chest—like her body was collapsing all at once, like her insides were being set aflame. She wanted to throttle Regulus. She wanted to weep into his neck. She wanted the day to rewind. She wanted to forget all about this.

“No,” she said, voice shaking. “No—I _was_ your best friend. I _was_—”

“Grace…” he said helplessly, like her name was enough to save him, like if he strained his voice hard enough, if he made himself small enough and sad enough and sorry enough then she would come back to him.

“Do you know how _stupid_ I feel?” she spat. “Do you know—Merlin, Regulus—people _suspect_. You know that, right? I don’t know if Greengrass thinks you’re a Death Eater—” he winced at the word, “—but she certainly knows you, Yaxley, and Rosier are involved in _something_. She thought that—she told me as much—and I didn’t believe her. I said _no_. That’s not possible, because it’s _you_. And I _know_ you.” Her throat was tight and choked. Her words trembled. “There were so many signs, but I didn’t care, because it was _you_. Even when you ignored me, even when you insulted me, even when you chose Yaxley and Rosier over me—I didn’t care. Because I knew it couldn’t _really_ be you. Because I _trusted_ you, and—and—” she blinked back tears, “—what a fool I’ve been.”

She hated how fucking calm he was being. He was damp-eyed and trembling, but his voice was still tight, his body still rigid. She hated that he was still in control of himself.

“You’re not a fool,” he said quietly—as if she wanted his thoughts on the matter, as if she needed comfort from _him_.

“Don’t talk to me like that!” she cried out. Her voice was an earsplitting thing. “Stop it! I don’t want you to be fucking civil! I don’t want it—”

“I’m not trying to—”

“You don’t get it! You don’t—” she gasped for air amongst her sobs. He was a part of _them_. How could he not see how cutting this is? How terrible it was of him to show her that Mark? When he knew what it had taken from her? “They killed Ollie!” she screeched. “You _know_ that! You were there when I got the owl! You were _there_, and you still joined—!” Her voice collapsed into itself.

“Grace…” he said, and she wished he would just stop trying. She wished he would just let her steamroll him into the ground. That’s all she wanted to do: pound meaning into his thick skull. She wanted him to get it; this gash in her heart was _his_ fault, and he had to understand that. He had to know what it was he’d done. This was _betrayal_, and what a cold, cutting thing that was. 

Grace swallowed down her voice. She briefly pressed the hilt of her palms against her eyes, stemming the flow of tears.

When pulled away her hands, she saw Regulus reaching for her.

“Stop,” she said, and hated how her voice warbled.

He swallowed thickly and moved back. His arms fell back against his sides, limp and useless. “I never meant for any of this,” he choked out. “I never...”

His voice was just as broken as hers—just as drawn and ragged and cracked—and Grace thought that perhaps she would find comfort in that small fact. That perhaps she should feel some sort of triumph in his suffering, but she did not. She felt worse for it. She felt heartsick.

The minutes tumbled into one another like dominos. The white-hot wrath in Grace melted into something smoother, something deeper. Her throat was tight and raw. Her nails had dug so deeply into her palms that they had broken skin.

She stared at Regulus brokenly, unsure of what else to say, if there was even anything left to say. She wanted to cleft herself of the moment, but she couldn’t bring herself to leave. She had come here intending to win back Regulus, and some small part of her still ached for that. She wanted to tear his Mark right out of his skin. She wanted to pluck any memories of Death Eaters and You-Know-Who straight from his skull.

But she could not do that. Regulus had made his choice. It was time for her to make hers.

“Can you…” she began but the words were faint and quickly swallowed up by her closing throat. How could this be happening? How could she tell Regulus to continue to do what he had been doing—to ignore, to cut her off, to forget about her?

Her heart ached viciously.

“What do you want?” Regulus asked when it was clear Grace could not finish her sentence.

She glanced at him, but quickly looked away when hazel met grey. “I want you to leave. I want you to—I want to never see you again.”

And just like that, he left.

* * *

She didn’t stay in the Room for very long after that. She wanted to get away from any semblance of Regulus, and the Room had taken on a form that was tailored to him—lush carpeting, tall, teetering bookshelves, the warm glow of a few flickering torches.

Grace stepped out from the Room, sticking close to the shadows. She was not sure where she was heading. She didn’t quite care about where she was going, either, so long as she was going _away_. She moved opposite to the Slytherin dungeons, where she now knew at least three Death Eaters resided, climbing staircase after staircase, going higher and higher. The heels of her shoes clacked against the stone steps. Portraits hushed her as she walked by, but Grace couldn’t care less.

She wanted to find a place that Regulus had never been. She wanted a hiding spot that was free of Regulus’s memory. But this was a ridiculous wish. There wasn’t a place in Hogwarts that hadn’t been touched by Regulus. Every place Grace knew of was also known by Regulus, either because she shared it with him or because they had found it together. He knew of the winding tunnels that led to Hogsmeade, the alcove hidden behind the mirror on the fourth floor, the abandoned cellars nestled deep in the dungeons of the castle.

As Grace reached the top of the North Tower, she caught sight of a familiar spindly, silver ladder from the corner of her eye. Her footsteps faltered and came to a complete stop. She rubbed at her eyes tiredly.

In all the upheaval of the past few weeks, she had forgotten about the Divination classroom entirely. She felt slightly guilty about it (but the emotion was a pinprick in the mess of thoughts that hurled through her head), because she had meant to stop by briefly in the beginning of the semester, out of respect for Vablatsky.

Divination, although a questionable practice, had enthralled Grace throughout her time at Hogwarts. When she didn’t know what to get James for his fourteenth birthday, she had Vablatsky do a tarot reading. _Get him something he can wear, something that redhead’s bound to notice on him_, Vablatsky had said. When she didn’t know how to convince Sirius to return to Regulus, Vablatsky told her: _You cannot force a person to move back, only forward._

And although James hated the bright pink dress robes she had gotten him for his birthday and Sirius had still not made up with Regulus, Grace still found a certain comfort in the art of cartomancy. It was very likely that the whole thing was bollocks, but there was something about those cards, something about cradling destiny in your hands, that made Grace feel infinitely better.

She wanted that security now. She wanted to ruffle through her old deck of cards and ask what to do, because she sure as hell didn’t know what she was supposed to do. Just keep living her life? Forget all this had ever happened?

The only problem was that she hadn’t brought her own tarot cards with her this year, on account of Divination being cancelled. But there ought to be some spare decks lying around Vablatsky’s old classroom, right?

Grace grasped at the rungs of the ladder. She climbed up slowly and reached for the trapdoor, shoving it open. She half-expected Vablatsky herself to be there, lounging by one of the many planters, sipping at her horrid tea, a pack of yellowed tarot cards fanned out in front of her.

But when Grace poked her head through and eased herself up and into the classroom, she found that there was hardly anything there. The colorful curtains that used to cover the walls, the tall, teetering plants that had been crammed into the corners of the classroom, the overflowing bookshelves, even the wonky grandfather clock that was almost always fifteen minutes behind—all was gone. There was nothing left but memory.

Grace’s right hand traced over the bare tables. “Merlin,” she exhaled, and felt her shoulders fall.

She had known Vablatsky was dead for a long time now, but she hadn’t realized till just now that Vablatsky was _gone_. Somehow, the two were different. Dead was a headline in a newspaper. Gone was the dark, empty classroom—the absence of color and warmth.

Grace fell into one of the many chairs that still cluttered the room. She cradled her head in her hands and closed her eyes briefly.

What was she supposed to do _now_? Now that she had lost Regulus? Now that she was sure Greengrass wouldn’t talk to her again? Now that Dad was in St. Mungo’s with Mum fluttering by his side day and night? Now that James was hiding things from her? Now that she didn’t have Vablatsky?

“I just want someone to tell me what to do,” she told the room quietly. She half-wanted a ghost to float through the walls and tell her, step-by-step, how to remedy all the problems in her life.

But that ghost never came.

With a heavy sigh, Grace lifted her head up. She twisted around, intending to push aside the excess chairs and storm out of the classroom, when she caught sight of a glimmer of light.

Grace shifted, and saw that the back room of the classroom—where Vablatsky spent her time between classes—was open just a crack.

“Lumos,” she said, getting up and moving forward.

Grace pushed open the door, and found that the brief flash of light had been caused by an open vial of fairy wings that had been stuffed onto a shelf. She swung the tip of her wand over the interior of the room. To her dismay, there were no tarot cards lying about—or any other tool for Divination. The back room was utterly devoid of crystal balls and star charts. In fact, it hardly seemed to belong to a Seer.

It was rather neat, a stark contrast to how Vablatsky had organized her classroom these past few years. The books and vials had been meticulously shelved according to topic or ingredient. Throw pillows were nestled tidily on a futon that was pushed to the back of the room. At the center of the room was a small table with a pristine, untouched tea set.

The only messy part of the room was the dresser besides the door. The drawers were overflowing with loose papers and parchment; scrolls and tied stacks of papers had been haphazardly collected and thrown atop the dresser.

Grace frowned as she spotted labels along the backs of the scroll. She reached for the first one she saw, where, written in Vablatsky’s small print, was the name _Hiraida Kahlo._

She knew who that was. He was a Ravenclaw who had been in the year above her. He had been the only seventh-year to enter N.E.W.T. Divination last year. After him were other scrolls—some with names Grace recognized (_Castor Avery, Andromeda Black_), others that she did not (_Melanie Higgins, Leo Montparnasse_). Some were only a page long, others were composed of stacks and stacks of parchment that were bound together with string. All were unreadable—not because Vablatsky’s handwriting was messy, but because the contents of every scroll was in some ancient runic script.

Grace’s hand stopped when she reached the only notebook amongst the pile. It was a simple, moleskin journal with a strap to compose the many pages. Grace opened the notebook and flipped through the pages. It was, like the scrolls, filled to the brim with runes.

She thumbed back to the beginning of the book, curious to see if Vablatsky had written all this for just one student. Tucked away in the upper left-hand side of the first page were the only two words in the entire notebook that had been written in English: _Grace Potter._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> I hope you enjoyed that chapter! As always, thank you for the kudos and comments! Keep letting me know your thoughts! :)


	6. Rash

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For once, Grace isn’t the one in the hospital bed. It’s not a good feeling.

“This is ‘and,’” Sophia said with absolute surety. One of her hands hovered over the minuscule rune while the other rapidly flipped through her textbook.

“Nice,” Grace complimented. “What about the one that comes before that? Or even after?”

Sophia glanced back at Vablatsky’s notebook. Her nose wrinkled slightly. “Those seem like really advanced words.”

Grace deflated. “Yeah, I was afraid that might be the case.”

A third-year who had only just begun Study of Ancient Runes was certainly not Grace’s first pick when it came to deciphering the mysterious journal Vablatsky had left behind. But Hogwarts was not exactly flooded with experts in runic script, so Grace had to make do with what she had.

“This one—er—” Grace glanced back at the book she had procured from one of the highest shelves in the library, “—might be ‘cat’? Maybe? It’s got the squiggly dash in the center, and—”

“I think that’s just a smudge, actually.”

“Oh,” Grace said in a perfectly calm voice, and then leaned forward and let her head fall smack against the table. “Merlin’s beard—this is hopeless!”

She had quite liked the idea of deciphering Vablatsky’s journal in the beginning. It seemed to be a mystery that the old Divination professor had left behind specifically for her, and she was more than willing to take up the challenge. Grace had also figured it would be a good way to distract herself from Regulus.

Except it wasn’t.

With every rune she and Sophia managed to piece together, Grace was inadvertently reminded of Regulus, who was taking N.E.W.T. Ancient Runes and could likely decipher the entire journal in a matter of hours. It didn’t exactly help that Grace seemed to be bumping into Regulus at every possible opportunity. Merlin, she’d never realized how many classes they had together. Or how _small_ the Great Hall could be; had the Ravenclaw and Slytherin tables always been so close to one another?

It was difficult to throw Regulus out of her mind, but Grace was nothing if not stubborn. She had Dirk and Sophia to sit with during the odd meal. And when Greengrass was in a rare agreeable mood, Grace partnered with her for class. All in all, it wasn’t a perfect situation. But it was preferable to remaining friends with a Death Eater.

Grace felt a small hand pat her shoulder consolingly.

“Maybe we could show this to Professor Babbling,” Sophia suggested. “I bet she could translate the whole thing instantly.”

Grace propped her head up. “Absolutely not,” she said immediately, grabbing onto Vablatsky’s journal and tugging it closer to her. “What if this contains sensitive information?”

“Like what?”

“I dunno,” Grace shrugged. “Vablatsky was, first and foremost, a Seer. She had a bunch of scrolls about students. She was probably recording visions about them. I bet this whole book—” she flipped through the pages of Vablatsky’s cramped writing, “—is just a bunch of prophecies about me—which means it’s me who should be reading them, not Professor Babbling.”

Sophia cocked her head thoughtfully. “But if they’re prophecies about you and Vablatsky never gave them to you…then maybe you shouldn’t be reading them, either.”

“Maybe I shouldn’t,” Grace agreed absently. She grabbed the book about runic script and began scanning through the glossary once more. “But I will anyway.”

Sophia let out an exasperated sort of sigh. “It’s just that…what if you find out something about your future that you shouldn’t,” she tried.

“Whatever I do or don’t is still meant to be, so it’ll be alright,” Grace answered easily.

Sophia glanced at her, brows furrowed. “What?”

“If I wasn’t meant to read them, then Vablatsky wouldn’t have written them all down and put them in a place where I could have gotten them. But she did, so I was probably meant to find them eventually. And—who knows—maybe she was planning on giving them to me.” Grace’s lips thinned. “It’s just that she never got the chance.”

They fell into an abrupt silence after that. Grace’s eyes skimmed over the index in her book. The runes blended into one another—bold curves into strong spirals into thick dashes and on and on. The characters swam before her eyes. Grace closed her eyes and leaned back against her chair.

Grace didn’t actually know if Vablatsky meant for her to have this journal, but she certainly liked to think so. And even if she was never meant to decipher these words, she would still try. There was security in this journal. There was a concrete beginning and end to it. Vablatsky had written Grace’s destiny down, and Grace only wanted to know if the ending was a good one.

“Oh, I know this one!” Sophia cried out suddenly, startling Grace.

The legs of Grace’s chair teetered back as she lurched back, but she caught herself forward on the edge of the table just in time.

“What?” Grace asked wildly, craning towards Sophia. “What is it?”

“This one,” Sophia said exultantly, pressing down on a rune at the top of what must have been the twentieth page of the journal. “This is the basic form of ‘to see.’ We learned that last week: I see, you see, we see, they see. This one is...” She leaned in closer, the tip of her nose almost brushing the page. “Well, this one is sort of weird, actually. It’s the verb form—see, it’s got the arrow—but it’s not in verb form?”

“So a different part of speech?” Grace suggested.

“Yeah, it’s written as a noun.” Sophia frowned and looked up at Grace. “But then she could have just used the noun for it—like ‘sight’ or ‘vision’ or something.”

“Maybe that’s what she meant, but she didn’t know the rune for it?” Grace glanced down at the page. “What about this one, the one after ‘sight’? It looks sort of like a cross stuck to a triangle…hold on, I think I’ve seen that before.” She grabbed her book and began flipping through the pages once more. Her finger traced rune after rune, until, finally: “Aha! Here we are…that one’s ‘obstacle,’ I think.”

“Sight obstacle,” Sophia hummed quietly.

“Sight obstacle,” Grace repeated, letting the words roll in her mouth. “Sight obstacle, sight obstacle…”

“Does that mean anything?”

She hefted a sigh. “No, not at all.”

“Maybe I’m wrong about this one then,” Sophia said, tapping at the first rune. “It could be that Vablatsky was using a different type of script, and it doesn’t have anything to do with sight at all.”

Grace dogeared the page so she could examine it more closely later. “No, you’re probably right,” she told the third-year comfortingly. “Vablatsky is likely just speaking in riddles.”

“Er—you’re Potter, yeah?” a new voice piped in.

Grace glanced up and spotted a first-year Hufflepuff shifting awkwardly in front of their table. He was tall and weedy. In his hands was a tightly-clutched letter.

“Yeah?” she said, eyeing him suspiciously.

“Here.” He thrust the letter at her. “It’s from Dumbledore.”

Grace’s heart stopped in its tracks. “What?” she said. “What do you mean from Dumbledore? What’s it about?”

He stared at her for a long moment. “How on earth would I know?” he said at last. “Just open and it read it, gosh…”

Grace shot him a nasty glare as he sauntered off. “They keep getting cheekier and cheekier,” she muttered darkly as she ripped open the letter.

> _Miss Potter,_
> 
> _Please meet me in my office at your earliest convenience. I have just received some urgent news that would be better delivered in person._
> 
> _Sincerely,  
_ _Albus Dumbledore_
> 
> _P.S. Those Caramel Cobwebs sure are growing popular, aren’t they?_

“What is it?” Sophia asked curiously.

“Nothing,” Grace said instantly, and began gathering her things. “It’s nothing.”

But it wasn’t.

A terrible burst of uncertainty clawed its way through Grace’s chest. There was only one explanation for this note, for calling on her out of the blue: Dumbledore had figured it out.

He knew Regulus was a Death Eater.

* * *

For about the thousandth time since she left the library, Grace thought about turning back. She thought about ripping up the letter that first-year had delivered and returning to Sophia. She thought about Obliviating herself—erasing any memory of what had transpired in the Room with Regulus that fateful day—because…well, that was what all this was about, wasn’t it?

There wasn’t any reason for Dumbledore to send for her. Grace wasn’t doing spectacularly in her classes, but she wasn’t doing terribly, either. She was making progress with her Patronus (a stub of a tail and long hind legs were all she could ever make out) and Slughorn had finally forgiven her for the exploding cauldron incident (but only after Grace managed to procure some occamy eggshells for his private storeroom). Life at Hogwarts was going as smoothly as possible for Grace, so it couldn’t be anything school-related.

It had to be about Regulus. Or, more specifically, about the Death Eaters who had infiltrated Hogwarts: Rosier and Yaxley and Merlin only knew who else.

“Are you just going to pace there all day?” groaned the gargoyle that guarded Dumbledore’s office.

Grace frowned at the statue. “What does it matter to you?”

“This job is hard enough without the backchat, you know,” the gargoyle muttered under his breath.

Grace scowled at the stone figure. “Caramel Cobwebs,” she bit.

The statue revealed a winding staircase. Despite every fiber of her being screaming at her to turn away, Grace took a deep breath and stepped forward. She climbed up steadily, step by step, fiercely ignoring the frantic thump of her heart, the nauseating curl of her stomach.

She had never considered this before. Well—she had, actually. She had wrestled with the idea of telling someone that there were a few Death Eaters lurking in Hogwarts, but she squashed the idea as quickly as it had arrived. How could she ever be Regulus’s doom? She hoped, quite selfishly, that someone else might figure out that Yaxley and Rosier were Death Eaters and turn them in. Regulus would be safe if he didn’t do anything mind-numbingly stupid.

She had refused to dwell on the idea that anyone would figure out Regulus was a Death Eater. She didn’t think it was possible. After all, _she_ hadn’t figured it out herself, and there was no one on the planet who knew Regulus better than her.

“…I understand what you’re saying, Albus, but the truth of the matter is that this only became an issue after Vance took on her position here,” a low, reedy voice coughed out from Dumbledore’s office.

Grace stopped short of the entrance, flitting by the archway. _Merlin’s baggy pants_, she thought sourly. Why did Dumbledore book so many conflicting meetings?

“I really have no idea what to say to any of this. Whatever it is Emmeline is doing outside of Hogwarts really isn’t any of my business, Harold,” Dumbledore replied calmly.

Grace’s brows furrowed. She stepped closer to the side of the open entrance, and peeked her head out into the open. Her brows rose as she caught sight of the tall, lean man with wispy hair opposite Dumbledore—Harold Minchum, the current Minister for Magic.

Fresh panic rooted itself deeply into Grace’s chest. She tore her head away from the view and stepped to the side, back flat against the stone wall. This was a sure sign Dumbledore knew. He knew, and he had called the Minister here so they could speed along the judicial process.

“You can’t really expect me to believe Vance is tailing high-ranking members of the Ministry just for the fun of it.”

“High-ranking members of the Ministry?” Dumbledore repeated with mild astonishment. “You said it was Antonin Dolohov and Rawdon Avery. I’d hardly call an Unspeakable and a member of the Wizengamot high-ranking.”

“High-ranking or not, they are still members of the Ministry, and I have received complaints that Vance has been approaching them in a hostile manner—”

“I don’t see what this has to do with me at all,” Dumbledore maintained.

“Again,” the Minister sighed, “this activity only began after she became a professor here at Hogwarts. Crouch is worried she is taking some or the other directive from _you_.”

“You can assure Crouch that I am doing no such thing. As I mentioned earlier, I am not involved with anything Emmeline does outside of Hogwarts.”

A steely silence followed. At last, Minchum gave in. “Alright,” he agreed.

“Wonderful.” Dumbledore clapped his hands together softly. “Now, I have another meeting in a short moment, so if you don’t mind—”

“Oh, that’s not all, Albus,” Minchum started imperiously. “There’s also the matter of an uneven split between Vance’s time here and at the Ministry. When you requested an Auror to oversee Defense, we were under the impression you would only need Vance once or twice a week. As it stands, she’s gone nearly every workday—”

“This is a school, Harold. There’s no time to be taken off. Students must be taught.”

“Crouch is becoming increasingly distressed about Vance’s commitment to her role. She seems to be taking more care to gallivanting around Hogwarts and trailing Ministry officials after dark than closing her assigned cases.”

“Again, I fail to see how this is my responsibility.”

“If necessary, we may pull Vance from her position at Hogwarts. No—I won’t hear anything more on the matter, Albus. I fall into agreement with Crouch on this one. Times are tough. Now is not the time to spare Aurors.”

“Do you really think so?” Dumbledore said softly. “Who but an Auror is fit to train the next generation of Aurors? If this war is to go on for as long as you think it may, then we may need these students…and they must be ready.”

Another tense silence followed. Grace shifted uneasily in her hiding spot. The small crevice behind the entrance was uncomfortable to stand in for long periods of time. Her legs were bent strangely, and her arms ached from holding her position up against the wall.

“I’ll speak to Crouch,” the Minister said a short while later, seeming thoroughly put-out. “But don’t think this is the end of our conversation.”

“I’ll see you soon, I gather,” Dumbledore said kindly.

Grace strained her ears as she heard a faint _whoosh_—the telltale sign of the Floo—and she eased herself forward, waiting, preparing.

_If Minchum left, then maybe Dumbledore didn’t call him in for me_, Grace thought rapidly. _But he still might know about Regulus. And if he does, if he asks—what do I do?_

“Miss Potter, you can step out now.”

It was as though someone had dumped a bucket of ice water over her. Grace walked into the office, trembling. The contents of her dinner lurched dangerously in her stomach.

She sat across from Dumbledore and clasped her hands tightly together. Her thoughts were clotted with images of Regulus—the soft peek of his smile and the messy tousle of his bedraggled hair and the cloudy grey of his eyes. He had made a decision—a terrible, rotten decision—and now Grace had been called to reveal it, to condemn him for it.

She could not. She knew it instantly. She could not give him up. She could not betray him. She didn’t know how.

Dumbledore’s hands were steepled together. His piercingly blue eyes danced over her face. The crease between his brows dipped slightly. “Something the matter?”

“Er—no,” she said, and immediately regretted the hasty quality to her voice. She willed herself to be slower, to seem softer. “Everything’s fine. What did you want?”

_Not Regulus. Not Regulus. Please don’t ask me about Regulus._

“Your brother—”

And the panic evaporated from Grace in an instant.

“—sent a message to me from St. Mungo’s—”

Another wave of alarm rolled over her. Grace shot up from her chair. “St. Mungo’s?!” she cried out. “Is it about Dad? He hasn’t—” Her voice collapsed into itself. The thought was too terrible to voice.

Dumbledore caught onto her line of thinking. “Your parents, as I gather, are both stable at the moment,” he said, but his voice was still low and grave, and everything in Grace screamed that something wasn’t quite right.

“Parents?” Grace repeated. “As in—Mum—”

“Your mother has also been admitted,” he confirmed. “James has requested that, if possible, you drop by to visit.”

“Yeah—I mean, yeah—” Grace’s eyes flickered over to flickering flames of the Floo. She glanced back at Dumbledore. “Did he tell you what happened?”

“I’ve no idea.”

“But they’re alright now? You said they were stable.” Grace’s voice wavered. She did not know what she would do if Dumbledore did not agree with her. She scarcely knew how she felt in the moment. The world seemed darker, narrower. “Did James say if they were okay?”

“Your mother didn’t seem too bad off,” a new voice piped in. Brisk and businesslike, it came from the wall of portraits that swept around the Headmaster’s office.

Grace craned her neck and saw a portly woman in a large gilded portrait wave emphatically at her. The witch had neat, shoulder-length hair and wore the sage green robes that were standard issue for all Healers. At the base of her portrait was a plaque that read _Dilys Derwent_.

“Er…” Grace started.

“Dilys was Headmistress of Hogwarts in the eighteenth century,” Dumbledore explained. “She was also a celebrated Healer in St. Mungo’s, and has a portrait there she travels to frequently. James sent me the message through her.”

“Oh,” Grace said faintly. Her eyes snapped to the silver-haired witch. “So Mum’s okay?”

“A little green, but otherwise alright,” the portrait responded honestly. “But I only saw her for a moment.”

“Okay,” Grace said, nodding along. Her heart was going so fast it was a miracle it hadn’t burst out of her chest and ran the distance to St. Mungo’s already. “So can I go, then? James said to drop by, so I can go?”

She had to go. She had to see Mum and Dad herself. She had to know what had happened, what James had been keeping from her.

Dumbledore stared at her for a long moment. Finally, with far too much solemnity than Grace cared for, he said, “You may go, of course, but first…is there anything you would like to tell me, Miss Potter? Anything at all?”

“No, professor,” she said wearily, and had to force herself to keep still. “Can I go now?”

He leaned back. “By all means,” he said, gesturing at the fireplace.

She stepped into mantel. Amongst the emerald green of the flickering flames, she could still make out the deep blue of Dumbledore’s unwavering eyes.

* * *

She emerged in the waiting area of St. Mungo’s, limbs aching, head throbbing. The whole of the hospital was a well of harsh white light, and Grace struggled to adjust to it. She had never quite liked how bright St. Mungo’s was. It made her feel more vulnerable than she really was.

The thick smell of valerian wormed its way into her nose as she walked to the reception area.

“Er—hullo?” she burst as she approached the witch seated behind the desk. “Do you know where the Potters are? Euphemia and Fleamont Potter?”

The receptionist waved her wand and a scroll appeared in front of her. She searched through the length of the parchment at an agonizingly slow pain. Grace could feel the seconds tick by. Each one felt like a prick in her skin.

“Second floor, the magical bugs ward,” the witch said at last. She vanished the scroll and took out a pamphlet with a map of the hospital. “If you take the staircase up, it’ll be right across from—”

“I know where it is,” Grace said briskly. It was opposite the chronic diseases ward, where she had spent much of her childhood.

She barreled down the length of the corridor in something of a daze, weaving between patients and Healers alike. She craned her neck now and again, trying to catch sight of a familiar head of untidy, jet-black hair. (_James_, she thought frantically, _where are you?_)

Grace spotted the edge of the magical bugs ward, and dashed forward. A flurry of Healers came out, and through the gap of bodies, right near the door of the ward, she spotted—

“Mum!” she called out when she caught a glimpse of the familiar peacock-colored robes, the gentle grey of her mother’s long single braid.

The Healers moved by, and Grace saw more: there was a half-drawn, light green curtain obscuring the face, but Grace could still make out the angry red-purple rash working its way down her mother’s arm, the wane, slightly green hue to her mother’s skin, the tremble of her body, the hacking cough that erupted from her mouth.

Grace’s heart jumped to her throat. Her chest caved in. She wanted to move, wanted to surge forward and pick her mother up and breathe fresh life into her lungs, but the moment struck her still. She was dizzied by the sight of Euphemia Potter—tall and broad-shouldered, who had never even _sniffled_ in Grace’s presence—stuck in that hospital cot, skin sallow and pale.

As the flock of Healers left, the doors to the ward thudded to a close. Grace stared at the grey doors emptily. Pinned across the front was a large sign: _Dragon Pox—Stage C. Visitors must perform the Bubble-Head Charm before entering._

“No,” Grace said, and the voice seemed cut off from herself. She couldn’t believe the moment, that it was rolling, that this was happening. She could see the sign, but it didn’t seem real. She could feel her panic—unfathomably wide and blunt—but it didn’t seem right.

Yet another Healer emerged from the special section. She pushed past the doors, cast a surprised glance at Grace, and moved on. The doors closed behind her. The thud of it made Grace flinch.

A hand caught onto her shoulder, and Grace spun around violently, frenzied.

She almost thought it was Regulus, and very nearly fell into his arms. But once her gaze settled, she noticed the shoulder-length hair, the peek of a dark tattoo resting against his collarbone, the ripped Muggle band t-shirt that hung loosely from his frame.

“Whoa, calm down,” Sirius said, hands up. He peered at her cautiously.

The silver of his eyes traced over Grace, and she found she couldn’t quite meet the gaze. Maybe it was the guilt of that terrible secret that sat solidly in her heart: _Your brother’s a Death Eater_. Maybe it was the unfailing resemblance Sirius shared with Regulus: the sweep of his dark brow, the hollow of his cheek, the deep grey of his eye.

Maybe it was both.

“What happened?” she said. _It was supposed to be a Muggle illness. It was supposed to go away by now._ “Where’s James? What happened?”

Sirius looked around. “I dunno about James—he was here, last I saw. Lily might have dragged him upstairs to get something to eat. He hasn’t since yesterday.”

“Yesterday?” Grace echoed. “I thought Mum was just admitted. She’s been here since _yesterday_? And no one told me?”

She wanted to be angry, but she couldn’t find the energy. She stared at Sirius helplessly. They had never gotten along—not the way he did with James or she did with Regulus—but they still understood each other. He should know her anger, no matter how subtle, no matter how diluted. Perhaps not as well as Regulus, but he should still know.

“No, no,” Sirius said, shaking his head. “Effie was admitted in the morning. It was Lily who was in yesterday—”

Grace started. “_Lily_—?” she repeated. “Lily’s been admitted, too?” Her head swept from side to side with renewed vigor. “Where’s James? He must be a mess—”

“She _was_ admitted,” Sirius said calmly, and Grace felt a wave of irritation rear in her. How could he be so composed? How could he stand there and speak each word so carefully? Didn’t he know? Didn’t he get that none of this right? That everything was collapsing at once? “It wasn’t anything serious. When they got home in the morning, they found Effie unconscious in the sitting room. And that’s when she was admitted.”

Grace’s stomach lurched at the words. “And then they realized it was the pox.”

Sirius at least had the decency to look away. “Yeah…and then they realized they’d misdiagnosed Monty.”

“But—” she glanced back at the doors, at the sign, “—how’s Mum in there already?” Grace asked. “When she only got in this morning? How’s she at the third stage?”

“She’s not,” Sirius said easily. “Your dad is. She was moved into the ward by request. She didn’t want to be separated from him.”

Grace’s brows flew up. “And James just let that happen?” she demanded. “James just—_fuck_! She’s been here for nearly a whole day! What if the pox has advanced?”

Sirius’s lips pursed. “Yeah, he just let it happen—and he instructed the Healers to cast a Bubble-Head so your mum wouldn’t breathe in any spores. Do you think he just wouldn’t take any measures or something? Do you really think that little of him?”

“I don’t know!” She didn’t know what to think in the moment. “I just—where _is_ he? Why isn’t he here? Why isn’t he with Mum and Dad in there?”

“I just told you! Lily’s probably forcing him to eat—”

“Can’t he eat here?”

“Merlin’s fucking—! Are you serious right now? He’s been a wreck, Grace! He needed a break. You don’t know what he’s been doing. You wouldn’t understand.”

Grace ground her teeth. That was always how it went, wasn’t it? There were things to be known in the universe, but she would never understand them. She would never understand why her parents had contracted Dragon Pox. She would never understand why James had been so secretive about it all. She would never understand why Sirius could be such a dickbag. She would never understand why Regulus became a Death Eater. She would never understand anything ever, so she ought to just give up, right? 

“He should be here,” Grace insisted, and she hated how her throat was beginning to close in. “He told Dumbledore I should come. He was expecting me, and I’m here now—and—and he should be here!”

This was St. Mungo’s. Grace had spent an unusually large amount of time here in her childhood, and it had mostly been spent alongside James. When the Healers came to drop off foul-smelling potions for her to ingest, it was James who’d turn it into a fun game. When she was confined to bed rest for the day, it was James who’d clamber into her cot with a pack of Exploding Snap.

“He should be here,” Grace said again, and her voice cracked somewhere along the center of her words. Tears were slipping past the corners of her eyes.

“Merlin, Padfoot. What did you do?” an aghast voice called out.

Grace rubbed at her eyes angrily, and looked up. Remus was approaching them, a bottle of Butterbeer in each hand. Trailing behind him was Peter with his own bottle.

“Nothing!” Sirius said immediately.

Remus thrust the bottle at Sirius. “Sure looks like something,” he said dryly.

Sirius shot him a glare. He sidled up next to Peter. “Only got back last night, and he thinks he knows everything,” he muttered.

“I just want to know where James is,” Grace told Remus.

“If he’s not in there—” Remus nodded at the closed ward door, “—then Lily’s likely taken him to get some food.”

It was the same dead end. Grace shut her eyes, and pressed the hilt of her palms against them. This day was pure and utter shit. She wanted to wash herself of it.

“He should be here,” she insisted. She couldn’t do this alone.

“He is here,” Remus said easily. His eyes swept over Grace. “He’s in St. Mungo’s, and I guarantee you’ll see him soon. He just needs a moment. I don’t know what Sirius said, but…your parents are alright at the moment.”

Grace didn’t find this believable at all.

“It’s Stage C,” she said hoarsely, and pointed limply at the sign.

“There are ten stages. They’re not very far along. Your mother’s certainly in a better state than your father. But he’s hanging in there. While Dragon Pox is certainly not reversible at this point, there is a possibility that they might fight it off and pull through.”

The hysteria in her calmed. “Oh.”

“You should go see them,” Remus said kindly. “You’ll see after you talk to them. There’s no reason to lose heart.”

Grace turned unsurely towards the closed doors. Her chest felt as flimsy as a piece of paper. One breath seemed enough to tear her right into two. 

“Alright,” she agreed after a moment, and silently cast the Bubble-Head charm over herself.

She pulled open the double doors and stepped into the ward. She caught sight of Mum immediately—near the front, only partially hidden by her curtain. On the very next bed was Dad, and he was far worse along than Mum. Purple pustules dotted his arms and face, and his rash was far rougher and redder. He was coughing messily into a handkerchief.

“Hullo,” Grace choked out, coming between the beds. Her heart was scrambling up her throat.

“Gracie!” Dad greeted once he had caught his breath.

“Oh, thank Merlin you’ve arrived,” Mum said, smiling weakly. “It’s been utterly dull in here. I don’t know how you used to put up with these wards when you were younger.”

Grace couldn’t help the fond smile that flitted over her face. “James would sneak me games and snacks.”

Dad snorted. “Of course he would.” His voice was hoarse and rough, like his words were being shredded as they passed through his throat. The sound made the smile drop from Grace’s face entirely.

“Are you alright, Dad?”

“Oh, there’s no need to worry about an old codger like me,” he waved off. “I’m perfectly fine. You know—I’m almost certain that potion of mine would’ve fixed me up in a couple more days if these Healers would have let me finish my course.”

“I’m almost certain you would have poisoned yourself if you finished the course,” Mum said. “Where on earth you got the idea that you could heal yourself…I’ve no idea…”

“All they do here is force potion after potion into our hands,” Dad argued. “I could just as easily do that myself in the comfort of our home.”

“Yes, if could properly _brew_ a potion.”

Dad let out a gasp. “I got an O on that N.E.W.T., Effie!”

A strange combination of wist and woe swept over Grace. Suppose Remus was wrong, and this really was it? Suppose her parents only had a few more weeks left? Grace could hardly bear the thought.

_How could you do this to me?_ she wanted to ask, but it wasn’t about her. She knew that, but she couldn’t help the thought. She knew that, and knew what her parents would say: _Do what to you, Gracie? Leave you? Oh, darling, you don’t need us. You never have._

But she did. She needed them like flowers needed light. Nothing had changed these past few years. She would always need Mum’s coddling and Dad’s terrible jokes. She would even need the scolding, the reprimanding, the heavy-handed lectures about responsibility and maturity.

“Have you talked to your Healers?” Grace sniffed, feeling horribly like somehow she was in the cot and her parents at the bedside. “About the Dragon Pox? It’s not bad, is it? I was talking to Remus, and—”

“You mean this?” Mum started haughtily. “Don’t you worry about it. It’s just a bump in the road, darling. It was bound to happen eventually. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but we’re getting on with the years—”

“Getting on with the years?” Dad coughed out indignantly. “I won’t hear it! I’m not a day over forty.”

Grace let out a watery chuckle. “I’m _serious_,” she insisted. “What did your Healer say?”

“Not much,” Mum said. “To be honest, I don’t like talking to him.”

“Quite a downer, that one,” Dad agreed.

“Ah, there he is now,” Mum pointed out, eyeing a stout Healer with windswept blond hair rather darkly. “Quick, Grace, pull my curtains back round. I don’t want him to catch sight of us.”

“Er—okay,” Grace said, doing as told. “What’s he done, exactly?”

“It’s just the way he _talks_,” Mum complained. “He could put Bathilda to shame, the way he goes on and on.”

From the slit in the curtains, Grace watched the Healer chat with another patient who seemed on the verge of falling asleep. The Healer had pulled out some parchments with hand-drawn figures and charts in the hopes of explaining some or the other symptom. The patient was waving him away.

“Maybe I should talk to him? He seems quite informed…”

“You can certainly try,” Dad said. “But take a pillow if you do, just in case you fall asleep in the middle of the conversation.”

Grace snorted. “I’ll be right back,” she told her parents, and stepped out of the enclave.

She strolled up to the Healer and tapped on his shoulder. He spun around in surprise and narrowed his eyes at her.

“You’re part of the Potter family, aren’t you?” he said.

Her brows rose. “Er—yeah—have you spoken to my brother, James?”

“Yes,” he said, and seemed very regretful of that fact. “He was quite…enthusiastic.”

Grace winced. “Right. Well. I just wanted to know what the prognosis is for my parents. Dad doesn’t look too good—but he’s talking just fine, making jokes and all that. That’s surely a good sign, right?”

The Healer eyed her warily. “I’m going to tell you the same thing I told your brother: Dragon Pox doesn’t go over well with the elderly. The immune system can’t bounce back the way it used to. I’m sure you’ve heard about what happened to Abraxas Malfoy?”

It had only been a couple years ago. Abraxas Malfoy had barely touched seventy when he passed away from Dragon Pox. James had thought the news rather good.

“That’s different,” Grace said immediately.

The Healer raised his brows. “Different how?”

“Because these are _my_ parents. They’re not like the Malfoys. They’re different. They have Dragon Pox, yeah, I know. But they’ll get better. We’ll do whatever it takes.”

_There is a possibility that they might fight it off and pull through_, Remus had said. If anyone could fight of Dragon Pox, it was Grace’s parents. If anyone could pull off the impossible, it was them.

From the world-weary sigh that escaped the Healer’s lips, Grace could only assume that the man had received a similar speech from James not too long ago.

“Look,” he sighed, “we will try our best. At the behest of your brother, we’re trying a new winterbloom remedy from America…but you must come to terms with the idea that we may simply be delaying the inevitable.”

Every fiber in Grace’s body rebelled against the thought. She shook her head. “No, no—there’s got to be a way to fix this—”

“Mr. Potter is already well past the stage to reverse the effects of Dragon Pox,” the Healer cut in briskly. “We have administered some preventative measures to Mrs. Potter, but those may be in vain considering how much time she spent at her husband’s bedside before his diagnosis. The plain fact of the matter is that there may not be a lot of time left.”

Grace did not care about time. If they did not have time, then—fine—they did not have enough time. But they still had hope—all of it, endless, inexhaustible—and she’d be damned if she ever lost any of that.

* * *

After spending a bit more time arguing with the Healer, Sirius stepped in to entertain the Potter parents, much to Grace’s chagrin. She patiently listened to Sirius make one pun about his name, and very quickly decided that her efforts would be better spent tracking down James. So, with a promise to stop by again later, Grace left the ward and traveled up to the tea shop on the top floor of the hospital. If Lily had truly taken James to get some food, this had to be where they’d gone.

And, indeed, as soon as Grace passed through the front door, she heard their voices:

“What about this one?” Lily said, pointing at a pastry in the display case that seemed to be a cross between a croissant and a cake. “It’s sugar-free.”

“Then what’s the point?” James sighed forlornly. “Might as well stick with the tea.”

“You’ve got to have something with the tea.”

“I would, if I could get something with sugar in it,” he said rather pointedly.

“You know that’s not going to happen, and for good reason—” Lily’s voice faltered as her green eyes met Grace’s. Her mouth fell open. She reached Grace in two great strides and swept her into a hug. “I didn’t think you’d get here so fast. I’m so sorry—we meant to meet you down in reception once James got some food.”

Grace instantly felt guilty for squabbling with Sirius earlier over James’s presence. “No, no, it’s fine,” she said sheepishly, patting Lily’s shoulder limply. “Sirius, Remus, and Pete were there. I saw Mum and Dad, and even spoke to their Healer…so I’d say I’m caught up.”

Her eyes flew over to James, who had taken a seat at the closest table. He was curled into himself, gently nursing a hot mug of tea. His leg was jittery, tapping against the floor restlessly. His eyes were rung with dark circles, and there was something heartrending in the haggard way he was glancing about the room.

Perhaps Sirius was right. Perhaps James did have a lot on his plate.

“They’re all down there?” Lily asked. “Already?”

“Yeah.”

Lily let out a great sigh. “I’d best head over and make sure they don’t create any trouble.” She cast a glance at James and leaned closer to Grace. In a whisper, she said, “Perhaps you can convince him to actually _eat_ something.”

And with nothing more than a hasty peck against James’s temple and one last hug, Lily flitted away. The bell of the tea shop jingled as the door opened and closed behind her.

Grace ordered her own cup of tea by the counter, and went to sit opposite James. She cradled the hot cup in her hands.

“Hey.”

He looked up briefly. “Hey,” he let out, voice worn.

“Er—are you alright?” she asked.

“Oh, I’m right as rain, I am,” he said sarcastically. “Never felt better.”

She rolled her eyes, and leaned further back in her chair. “Sirius mentioned Lily’d been admitted last night.”

James’s eyes darkened. His gaze fell from Grace’s. “Yeah,” he mumbled. “She’s fine now, though.”

“What happened?”

His head snapped back up. “What?”

“What happened?” she repeated.

“Oh.” He seemed alarmed by the question. “Er—well, there was just a mishap.”

“A mishap,” Grace repeated dryly.

“Yeah.”

“With what?”

“What?”

She groaned. “A mishap with _what_, James? Are you being thick on purpose?”

“It was nothing, really,” he waved off.

“Yeah, I’m sure,” she said, completely disbelieving. “Alright, fine, then don’t tell me. It’s probably embarrassing or something.” She watched him carefully, trying to gauge his response. “Is that it? Did Lily do something embarrassing and hurt herself?”

“You can ask her yourself later.”

Grace decided to take that as a yes. She hummed contentedly to herself, and took a sip of her burning hot tea.

“You’re not mad?” James asked after a moment.

“About what?”

“I meant to owl you as soon as we admitted Mum in the morning, but the Healers diagnosed her pretty much immediately. And then we had to go collect Dad from the wrong ward and move him to the right one. And I was trying to figure out how in Merlin’s name this sort of thing could have even happened—”

“It’s okay,” Grace said quietly. “You were under a lot of stress. I’m here now, and that’s all that matters.”

James smiled wanly at her, and picked up his tea. He took a sip, and promptly gagged on it. “I’ve had enough of this,” he grumbled quietly to himself, and picked up a handful of sugar packets from the center of the table. Quickly, he dumped no less than five packets into his cup, and stirred vigorously.

Grace’s fingers caught onto a stray packet. She crumpled the flimsy paper between her fingers. “Have you met that Healer, by the way?” she started. “Mum’s Healer? He’s a real prick.”

“You’re telling me,” James groaned instantly. He carefully tasted his new and improved cup of tea, and nodded his approval. “He kept going on and on about mortality rates—and Mum was right there! I almost hexed his nose off.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“Lily said it wasn’t worth it to get kicked out of St. Mungo’s. But Sirius managed to charm his laces together later, and he tripped into a bedpan while making rounds.” James snorted at the memory.

A sudden surge of appreciation for Sirius flew through Grace. She smiled gratefully. “Can’t we get her a new Healer? I feel like he’s already written them off… It’s not right.”

“It’s not,” James agreed instantly. “I’ll find someone new in the morning.” He shifted suddenly, and leaned forward. “They’ll be okay, Gracie,” James said lowly, and Grace got the distinct feeling that he was convincing more than just herself. “They’ll pull through. They will.”

_Do you promise?_ she wanted to say, but it would have been unfair to hold him to that, so she simply swallowed down the large lump forming in the midst of the throat and nodded.

“Okay,” she agreed.

“Okay,” he repeated, and smiled so brightly that, for one shining moment, Grace really did think everything was okay.

The aroma of freshly baked scones wafted through the air. The tea shop was near-empty and toasty. Grace found herself sinking into her chair.

“Everything’s going so badly,” she let out quietly.

“What do you mean?”

“Hogwarts.”

“Oh. Er—” James drummed his fingers against the table anxiously, “—if it’s boys, I can get Lily—”

She threw the empty sugar packets at him.

“Oi! What was that for?!”

“Why do you always say _boys_? Why can’t it be something else? Why can’t it be grades—?”

“But your grades are always bad, so it definitely—ow!” James yelped as Grace knocked at his shin with her foot. “Okay, okay! Merlin, it was just a joke!”

“Your jokes are rubbish,” she muttered.

“Alright, then no more jokes,” he promised. “What’s so bad about Hogwarts now?”

How could she even begin to explain it all to James? _Peeves has been unscrewing some of the chandeliers, which has been rather irritating. We’ve been doing Patronuses in Defense for the past month and a half, and I’m beginning to think we’ll never move on. Hmm, and there was something else—oh, right, a bunch of Death Eaters have infiltrated the castle, and Regulus is one of them._

“It’s nothing,” she sighed. Now wasn’t the time or place.

“Nothing?” James glanced at her slyly. “So it is—”

“If you say boys, I’ll hex you.”

James clammed up.

“So,” Grace sighed, “how’s your week been going? Sirius said you’ve been busy.”

“‘Course I’m busy,” James said rather pompously. “I’ve got a full-time job and—”

She snorted. “A _full-time job_? You’re a trainee.”

“I am not _just_ a trainee,” James said, shooting her a scathing look.

“You definitely are, though?”

“Okay, yes, _technically_—” he said the word with an air of skepticism, as though it might not be a real word, “—I’m a trainee, by the guidelines—”

“By your paycheck, too,” Grace pointed out.

“—but that doesn’t mean I’m not doing my part.” His chest puffed out. “I may be a trainee, but I reckon I’m doing a lot more than any Auror is doing right now. Merlin, the state of our Magical Law Enforcement Office is in shambles. I don’t think they’ll be the ones to end this war, if I’m being honest. It’s sort of bleak to put it like this, but it seems to me like Dumbledore’s Order—”

“Dumbledore’s what?” Grace’s brows furrowed. “What’s Dumbledore doing?”

“Oh, fuck,” James said faintly, wide-eyed. “Forget you heard that, will you?”

“Yeah, because that’s always worked,” she said sarcastically. She waited for James to offer his explanation, but instead he avoided her eyes and crammed five biscuits into his mouth at once. “Hold on—you can’t just _say_ something like that, and then not explain—”

“What did I say?” James said, and let out a high-pitched, nervous laugh. He quickly took a swig of tea. “I said something?”

“_James_—”

“Sometimes I just ramble. You know that, Gracie—”

“Oh, you’re calling me _Gracie_ now, too?” She raised a brow. “You’re up to something.”

“Up to my old tricks,” he agreed, and lifted his mug. “Put a load of sugar in here. Lily’ll kill me.”

“_James_,” she said again, sounding magnificently like she was five years old and whining after him. “You can’t _not_ tell me. I’ll be up all night wondering about this—”

“Good. Keep wondering. You’ll never know.”

“And if I go around casually asking others if they know about Dumbledore and his Order…?”

“_Be quiet_,” he hissed, leaning forward, his voice a shadow. “I swear to Merlin—if you mention this to _anyone_—”

“Mention _what_?” Grace said innocently. “I don’t _know_ what Dumbledore’s Order is. It’s just another set of words, as far as I’m concerned—”

“Okay, _okay_,” James said, eyes narrowed at her. “You know—you got really annoying around fifth year. I always thought it’d go away, but no such luck.”

“You know—I sometimes think you were born irritating, James. I hoped it’d wean away, but I think it’s chronic.” She offered a sympathetic little pat to his shoulder.

He shook her hand off. “Look—whatever I tell you, you absolutely _cannot_ tell anyone else. I mean it, alright?”

Hazel met hazel. The lighthearted air of the moment evaporated, transformed into something more grim. Grace felt her chest grow tight. “James, you can trust me,” she said honestly. “You know that.”

“Yeah, yeah…it’s just—” his eyes darted about near-empty tea shop, “—you can never be too careful, you know?”

“Sure.” A beat passed, and then she asked with far too much enthusiasm, “So, what’s happening?”

“So…at the end of last year…Dumbledore gathered me and Lily into his office.” His voice was so low and quiet that Grace had to lean closer and strain her ears just to make out his words. “I thought it was just a routine Head Boy and Head Girl meeting. Maybe he wanted to talk about dusters or something. But then…he mentioned he was putting together this team, a…er—counter-group, if you will.”

“Counter-group?” She mulled the word over in her head, and took a sip of her tea.

“Yeah. To fight You-Know-Who.”

She spat out her tea, splattering it onto the front of James’s robes. He cried out in surprise, shielding his face and rising.

“Merlin’s—sodding—!” He waved his wand over him, and the dripping stains vanished. He fixed Grace with a glower. “You’ve always got such measured responses…always keep a cool, collected head…wonder where you get it from—”

“You’re _fighting_ against—”

“Keep your voice down!” he said, sitting back down. “Yes, I am. Merlin, I didn’t think you’d react like _this_. I thought you’d find it wicked or something.”

“Wicked?” she said flatly. “You think I’d find it wicked that my only brother’s going out putting his life on the line? I—have you even told Mum and Dad?”

“Er—well…”

“Sweet Circe—you _haven’t_. Oh, James, what’ve you done…?”

“I meant to,” he said defensively. “But I didn’t really know _how_ to after I graduated. I mean, I had _just_ proposed to Lily, and there were wedding plans to be made. I could hardly be expected to just say, ‘Mum, Dad, I think the eggshell-colored napkins go best with the silverware. Oh, and by the way, Dumbledore’s recruited me for an anti-Dark Wizard taskforce—’”

“_Taskforce_—?” Grace wheezed.

“Poor choice of words,”James amended quickly. “It’s really nothing so serious, Gracie. It’s just a sort of, er, group that meets to counter Death Eater attacks and raids. I can’t really tell you much more than that.”

Grace stared at him for one long moment. Slowly, she shook her head.“James, you should at least tell Mum and Dad. They’d want to know about this…that you’ve gone and…that you’re a part of the war now. Like _really_ a part of it.”

“I meant to,” he said again, this time more pitifully. “But then Dad was admitted to St. Mungo’s, and now Mum has, too…and it’s just not a good time, not in the state they’re in. I don’t want to upset them. Mum’d have a heart attack. I can’t—I can’t tell them right now.”

“I guess, but you have to…eventually.” Grace’s finger rounded the rim of her teacup. “I just don’t understand…_why_?” she croaked out after a moment. “I just don’t understand why you’d go and join? When you could just as easily have gone into hiding, taken Lily somewhere…why would you…?”

She didn’t quite know what she was saying. The word _why_ was seared into her mind, even though she already knew the why. Why wouldn’t James do exactly this? What did she expect? For James to just sit back and let the world collapse? For him to just disappear into the background while people died, while the war went on? James would never. He would fight until the end. James, with all his Gryffindor courage and bravery and chivalry, would always do the right thing, no matter how dangerous, how reckless, how unnecessary.

He gave her a bemused sort of smile, but it didn’t lift any of the aching in Grace. “Lily? Go into hiding?” He snorted. “It’d be easier for me to kiss an Erumpent.”

She didn’t even snicker. “James…”

He softened. “You know,” James said, voice quiet, subdued. His hand—slight and golden—palmed the back of his cup. “The first time I proposed, Lily said no.”

Her eyes snapped to his. “What?” she said in disbelief.

It had been a sudden, abrupt change—James dating Lily in the middle of his seventh year—but once it began, it seemed very difficult to stop. They fell into each other so easily. Grace had teased James about it back then. (_Finally cracked and slipped her some Amortentia, then?_) But the closer the two got over the course of the year, the clearer it became that they were made for each other. No one could match James’s whiplash wit like Lily could. No one could match Lily’s fiery passion like James could.

Why in Merlin’s name would she have rejected James’s proposal at the end of seventh year?

“She said she’d made a mistake—a big one,” James said, and for reasons Grace couldn’t fathom, his lips quirked into a faint, fond smile. “She said we weren’t a good match for each other, that we’d fight over something small, that I still wasn’t responsible enough. It was a load of bollocks, honestly.”

Grace didn’t know what to say. “Why are you telling me this?”

“I’ve got a point, I promise,” James said. “Lily said yes the second time round. You know that. But she said no the first time, because she thought if I married her, I’d be in danger. Muggle-borns were already going into hiding. Lily figured it wouldn’t be such a good idea, that it might paint a target on our whole family, so she tried to end it. She didn’t think I’d ask for her hand as soon as I did. When she saw how serious I was—when—I dunno…”

“Oh,” Grace started, falling against the back of her chair. She stared at James blankly. “She saw you were willing to die for her.” And the thought of James dead—of James being kidnapped and tortured and killed for marrying a Muggle-born—must have been unconscionable to Lily. The redhead would have rather shattered her own heart than allow even the slightest possibility of that happening.

“Yeah, I suppose. I mean—” James cracked his lopsided smile, “—let’s be real, though. S’not like I would _ever_ let a Death Eater get near me without disarming them first. But I digress. The _point_ is that eventually I was able to get Lily to see my side: we can’t stop living our lives just because there are some wankers out there who disagree with us. If they hate what we’re doing so much, then—fine—we’ll fight them. That’s why we’ve joined, Grace. To fight, to make the world safe, to keep out hate and keep in love…”

He went on and on about the trials of love, the risks of it, how you had to trust one another. Grace didn’t think he was talking to her so much as to himself. It hardly mattered, though. She was barely listening.

Her eyes bored into the swirling golden-brown of her tea. She understood now. She knew why Regulus had shown her his Mark when he should not have, when he should have kept the secret to himself—no matter how much she goaded, no matter how much she whined.

Regulus wanted her to hate him. She did not know exactly why—if it was because he was trying to keep her out of harm’s way, perhaps out of Rosier and Yaxley’s sights, or because he was trying to focus on his own survival. Whatever the reason, she was sure he had meant for her to hate him that fateful night. She was sure he wanted her to leave him and never seek him out ever again. And while ignoring Grace for the rest of seventh year would have surely made her bitter and irritated, it would not have been enough for her to hate him. It would not have been enough to break that bond of loyalty. But showing her his Mark?

That had certainly done it.

She swallowed thickly, and picked up her mug. She pressed the smooth ceramic of it against her lips, guzzled down the burning liquid. It stung the back of her throat, but the searing pain wasn’t enough to pull her thoughts from Regulus.

How could she have been so hasty? How could she not have realized that Regulus—with his hidden books and coded letters—would have had something up his sleeve?

She set the cup down. Her eyes flickered back up to James, and she saw, to her surprise, that Lily had arrived somewhere in the middle of his lecture about love. She hovered over his shoulder, a cross little frown perched on her lips. James, it seemed, was frantically trying to explain _why_ he had just stuffed himself full of sugar when he was supposed to be off it.

“—it was only a few packets, Lily, I swear!”

“That’s not the point, James. You start using sugar to cope with stress, and suddenly you’re jittery all the time and need...”

Grace watched their bickering with growing resignation. Her chest grew tight and clustered. The light of the café was garishly bright. The air was thick and hot.

She’d really done it this time, hadn’t she? She’d gone and left Regulus behind. She’d done what Sirius had done—assumed and left. Merlin…she hadn’t even given him a chance to explain, and that should have been her first clue. He had just stood there and taken it all—the screaming and the crying and the leaving—without even offering up his side. And Regulus always had his version. Grace knew that. She _knew_ that…and yet…

“Er—are you alright?”

She started when she felt a warm hand press against her shoulder. She looked up, dazed, and saw Lily’s heart-shaped face peering down at her anxiously.

“Have you got a headache?” Lily asked softly.

Grace shook her head. “No—I’m just…” She locked eyes with a concerned James. She sighed deeply. “I just hate when you’re right.”

His brows flew up in surprise. “Oh,” he said smilingly. He tilted his chair further back, balancing himself on its back legs. “Well—it was rather a good talk, wasn’t it? Lily—you should have been there for it. It was _poignant_ and—agh!”

His chair tipped back too far, and he went crashing against the floor. Grace sprung to her feet, but found Lily already fluttering over James. Her wand was out and scanning over his wrist to check if it was broken. The sight made Grace’s heart ache.

“Lily…” James groaned. “The pain’s too much. You’ll have to go on without me…”

The redhead rolled her eyes and pocketed her wand. “Get up. Nothing’s broken.”

James reached out a hand. “Remember me, Lily…”

Lily laughed and swatted away his hand, and Grace found herself feeling incomprehensibly lonely. She could not help but think it was because Regulus was not there. She had seen Lily and James fawn over each other time and time again—in the Hogwarts library, in the Great Hall, in the annals of deserted hallways—but she had almost always been with Regulus. Somehow, seeing an obnoxiously in-love couple had been less irritating with him by her side. Somehow…

Grace swallowed thickly, and tried to bury the burgeoning thought by standing up abruptly. She pushed away her half-full cup of tea and headed towards the door, intending to make a few rounds through the wards. Hopefully the sight of a few grotesque injuries would ease the twisting and turning of Grace’s stomach.

“Where’re you off to?” James asked as she reached the door.

She swung around, and saw the duo—arm in arm—right behind her.

“I’m leaving.”

“What?” James said, alarmed. “Why?”

Because her head was pounding and her heart was racing, and she wanted it to stop. Because she was in St. Mungo’s but she wasn’t the one sick, and there was something so dreadfully wrong about that. Because there was only one person on the planet who could even begin to fathom the tight tangle of feeling in Grace’s chest, but she couldn’t talk to him. Because—because—

“Because Mum and Dad are ill, and you two are acting like lovesick teenagers,” she said at last, voice waspish and cross. She wasn’t angry at them, not really, but she wished she was. It would have been easier, then.

James scoffed. “You can’t expect us to be grim all the time. I told you—Mum and Dad will be fine. I’m sure of it. We just need to get a Healer who isn’t an absolute pillock.”

Grace swallowed thickly but refused to back down. “We should be more serious,” she said resolutely.

Lily raised a brow. “We are. You know we are. It does us no good to be all doom and gloom.” She stepped closer. “Love makes us stronger,” she said firmly, and those four words were enough to make Grace’s heart drop down to her feet.

She had never felt more strong or brave than when she was with Regulus. She had never felt more at ease with herself when she was with him. The past few weeks had been utterly dreadful without him. Grace had never felt so confused, so lost, so fucking _alone_.

If she was better with Regulus…what did that mean? What did that make them?

She stopped the thought before it could evolve. He was a _Death Eater_. There was a _Death Eater_ in Hogwarts, and she still hadn’t told James or Dumbledore or _anyone_ who should know about this. She kept it to herself, hidden deep in her heart, afraid of what might happen should the truth come to light.

She did not know why Regulus did what he did, but she was sure there was a reason. And she would be damned if she saw him shipped off to Azkaban before—

Her thoughts halted right there and then.

She had never considered Azkaban—that dreadful, inescapable prison—a place that Regulus might end up. And now that the thought had wormed itself into her head, she found herself becoming queasy.

Regulus couldn’t go _there_. He’d go insane. He’d _die_ there. He’d—

“Oh, Merlin,” Grace said faintly. How could she not have seen all this before? The more she thought on it, the more certain Regulus’s future seemed to become: three grey walls, a row of metal bars, and one Dementor roaming right outside. Oh, _fuck_—and there was Dumbledore’s so-called Order now. Suppose they got their hands on him? One jet of green light, and he’d be dead. He’d be _gone_.

She couldn’t let that happen to him. She couldn’t—

“Really, though? Are you okay?” James asked, concern flitting through him briefly. “Merlin—perhaps we ought to get you checked out, too. You’re looking kind of peaky…”

“I’m fine,” she protested weakly, even though she was not. Even though it seemed like her heart was ripping itself to shreds. Even though all she could seem to think about, in this moment, was Regulus spreadeagled on some cold hard surface, mouth agape, eyes empty.

Right now, she was the only person who knew, and she certainly wasn’t going to tell a soul. But suppose someone else found out? Suppose Regulus—clever as he was—didn’t conceal himself as well as he should have? Then, what?

“Come on,” James said all of a sudden, wheeling Grace out of the café. “Healer Kane ought to be somewhere in this blasted place—”

“What?” she said, alarmed, and shook herself free of his grasp. “What are you doing?”

“You seem…out of it,” Lily said honestly. “We’ll just stop by Healer Kane’s quickly. It might be the extra course of Clear-Head that’s causing—”

“No, no—I’m fine.” She peeled herself away from her brother’s side and began frantically striding towards the Floo connection. “I just realized something is all.”

“Realized what…? Wait!” James cried out in disbelief. “Where are you going?”

To Hogwarts. To right her wrong. To save Regulus.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m so glad to have finally reached this chapter, since it’s a big turning point! It’s called “Rash,” because of the terrible rash claiming the Potter parents (sorry, folks) and also because Grace is acting extremely rash, which I hope isn’t all too surprising considering her track record.
> 
> As always, thank you for the kudos and comments! Please keep letting me know your thoughts :)


	7. Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grace forms a plan.

Grace did not know how to save Regulus.

She had been racking her brain all week long, trying to come up with some or the other plan to prevent Regulus from being thrown into Azkaban. Her immediate thought was to simply have him _stop_ being a Death Eater. But how in Merlin’s name was she supposed to accomplish that? She didn’t know anything about Death Eaters beyond whisperings from the Hogwarts grapevine and shoddy news articles from the _Prophet_. If she were to come up with a plan to help Regulus, she needed to know something about the situation he was stuck in—something concrete. She needed to talk to him.

The problem was, of course, that they weren’t exactly on speaking terms.

Grace stamped into the Potions classroom, silently hoping Slughorn had a painless lecture planned. She needed an easy day. She was no closer to cracking Vablatsky’s journal than she had been the day she found it. Her father had progressed from Stage C of Dragon Pox to Stage D. James was making an effort to owl her every other day, but it was scarcely more than a hastily scribbled sentence or two. (Apparently, he was swamped with work in the Auror Office, although Grace wasn’t sure how much she believed that.)

“Hullo.” Dirk waved to her as she made her way towards his table. “You look dead awful.”

She stopped just in front of him and frowned. “And you look like a prat.”

“That’s all?” Dirk clucked his tongue sympathetically. “My, my, the rumors _are_ true. You’re losing your touch.”

“You’re going to lose your life if you keep this up,” Grace muttered. “Merlin, I thought Hufflepuffs were supposed to be nice.”

“You might want to consider being less narky with me,” Dirk sniffed, “considering I’ve got some news you’ve been waiting for.”

The scowl slipped off of Grace’s face in an instant. “What do you—”

“Grace!” a loud voice cheered, and Grace found her view of Dirk completely eclipsed by Davey Gudgeon’s broad-shouldered form. “I was meaning to talk to you, but you dashed out of Charms before I got the chance.”

Grace had actually seen him coming, which only spurred her to move faster. “Oh,” she said, “yeah, I just…love Potions. Couldn’t wait to get here.”

Dirk snorted from behind Davey. Grace shot him a warning glare.

“Makes sense. You’ve certainly got a knack for it,” Davey complimented.

“Yeah…” Grace said, wondering where on earth this was going. “What did you want, exactly?”

Davey straightened up immediately. “I was just wondering if—er—you were going to the Quidditch game?”

Grace stared at him. Between Death Eaters and Dragon Pox, she had completely forgotten such a thing as Quidditch existed. She was briefly struck still by the gall of Davey. Who in Merlin’s name had time to watch a bunch of pricks on broomsticks when the world was descending into chaos?

“The…Quidditch game…?” Grace repeated slowly.

Davey scratched the back of his neck. “Yeah. Ravenclaw against Slytherin.” He smiled suddenly. “Ever since your brother left, Gryffindor’s been out of the running for the Cup. And Merlin knows Hufflepuff’s never had a shot. Whoever comes out on top this match is a safe bet for winning the Cup. I heard Renard hasn’t been scheduling as many practices for the Slytherin team this term, and _I’ve_ been putting my team through the wringer ever since we got back, so I’m feeling pretty confident.”

Dirk had started pulling faces behind Davey’s back. Grace rolled her eyes and stepped past her ex-boyfriend, plopping her stuff onto the work table.

“Davey,” she cut in, just barely masking her annoyance, “I haven’t got time for the Quidditch game today.”

“Oh, it’s not today. It’s next week.”

“I don’t have time next week, either.”

He deflated. “Er—are you sure? It’s not the finals, but it’s a pretty big game.”

“I’ve just got too many assignments to finish right now. Maybe next time.”

“Alright, yeah. Maybe next time,” Davey murmured. He cast one unsure glance back at Grace before padding back towards his own seat.

“I know that look,” Dirk said sagely as Davey disappeared into the back. “He’s going to do something stupid.”

Dirk wasn’t exactly wrong. Grace didn’t think Davey would do something _stupid_ so much as wildly unnecessary. She used to like that about Davey. She had liked how recklessly creative he could be, how he’d asked her out by setting off fireworks during the Halloween feast in fifth year, how he’d flown them out to Hogsmeade on a charmed carpet for one of their dates. Of course, he ended up using far too many fireworks than strictly necessary, scorching the entire Great Hall. And while Davey had figured out how to get the carpet to fly, he had never paused to think how to make it _stop_.

“I don’t care what he does as long as it doesn’t involve me.” Grace slumped into her chair and turned to Dirk. “Anyway, what were you saying?”

“Anita sent me a letter this morning.”

Grace thought on the name. “Anita…” she began slowly. “Anita from your Smugglers’ Society?”

“The very one.” Dirk’s voice dropped to a low whisper. “She’s been helping a lot of Muggle-borns get out of the country. Set up Colvin’s family with some relatives in Spain.”

“Merlin’s beard—you actually found them, then?” Truth be told, the news was a little unsettling. Grace had only given Dirk a first and last name, and he had managed to uncover where Colvin’s entire family was hiding out.

“Of course I did!” he let out rather indignantly. “I’m a senior member of the Society, after all.”

Grace rolled her eyes. “Technically, _I_ should be a senior member, seeing as I’m the one who actually sold your blasted products.”

“Right, but no one needs to know about that,” he said hastily. “Anyway—Anita sent me this.”

He pulled out a crumpled letter from his bag and slid it across the table. Grace took it her hands and smoothed it out. It was a very brief message: _She has the paper. Don’t send me anymore school supplies. And stop writing me in Gobbledegook; it’s irritating to translate._

“She already got the sheet to Colvin?” Grace asked. Merlin, that was quick.

“I think so.” Dirk shrugged. “Can’t be too explicit in the letters in case they’re intercepted, but I’m fairly certain that’s what she meant.”

Grace let out a breath of relief. She had initially intended for this to be an apology for Greengrass (because Merlin knew a Slytherin would never apologize with _words_), but after all that had happened with Regulus, Grace had begun to see Greengrass in a different light. Their situations certainly weren’t the same, but Grace could understand not having your best friend by your side. Grace could understand the frustration, the heart-wrenching worry, the deep-seated want.

Now that Colvin had one half the of spellbound sheet, Grace could deliver the other half to Greengrass. Now at least one of them wouldn’t have to be completely miserable.

“Thanks, Dirk,” Grace said warmly. “Really.”

“It was nothing,” he waved off. “Well, actually, it wasn’t _nothing_. Say, since we’ve done your thing now, could you help me out with my rollerblades initiative? Dumbledore vetoed it, but I figure if I get a student petition going—”

“I honestly think issuing rollerblades to students would cause more harm than good, and that’s _me_ saying that.”

He deflated. “You might have a point there.”

“But if you need to get a petition going for any of your other Head Boy ideas, I’m excellent at forging signatures.”

“Perfect.”

Just as Grace was going to ask what Dirk planned to instate in lieu of mandatory rollerblading, Slughorn waddled inside the classroom, very carefully levitating a large cauldron of bubbling potion behind him. He settled at the front, and set the cauldron down.

“Hello, hello,” he chortled merrily. “Apologies for the late start. I was finishing up brewing today’s topic.” He gestured at the shimmering silver potion. “Now, we’ve actually covered this potion last year, but due to—er—all that had been going on, we never actually got the chance to brew it.”

“I’ve got to admire how much he refuses to face the realities of the world,” Dirk whispered to Grace. “I mean—s’not like things are any better now than they were last year, right?”

“I’ve been informed by a member of the Wizarding Examinations Authority—an old student of mine, actually. Oliver Thrumbell. Very astute fellow.” Slughorn cleared his throat momentarily. “Anyway, Oliver has told me that you’ll surely be asked to brew this particular potion for your N.E.W.T.s, and it is my intent to prepare you for that. Now, first thing’s first: how many of you actually _know_ what potion this is?”

Grace squinted at the glimmering liquid. The smell wafting from the cauldron was quite nice, but she was seated too far to identify it.

“It’s Amortentia, right?” Dirk said lowly.

“Yeah, I think so.”

Dirk’s hand went up, as did a few other students’.

“Ah, Miss Rosier?” Slughorn called.

“It’s Amortentia,” Myrcella Rosier said primly, “the most powerful love potion in the world.”

Slughorn beamed. “That it is! Five points to Slytherin. Now—since we’ve already covered this potion last year, I’ll not waste time with an overview. Let’s get straight to brewing!”

Grace sighed deeply to herself as she opened her textbook to the correct page. “Why can’t we do something simple?” she complained uselessly. “Why can’t we do the Dog’s Breath Potion? It takes thirty minutes to make.”

Dirk pored over his own textbook. “Ashwinder eggs, peppermint, moonstone, pearl dust... Jesus, there are like twenty ingredients!” He looked at Grace helplessly. “Sod this. Let’s do your Dog’s Breath Potion.”

The idea was tempting. “I’d rather not risk another round of detention with Slughorn.” Grace grimaced as she recalled the two weeks she spent with Slughorn after the smoke incident. She’d never known how smelly Flobberworm guts were. “Come on, let’s just be quick about it and get it over with.”

They divided the ingredients amongst themselves, cutting up and grinding and measuring until everything was set up for the potion. In a flurry of movement, Grace dumped ingredient after ingredient into her cauldron, giving a brief stir whenever required, more focused on getting the task done with than getting it right.

“It’s looking sort of…er—wrong…?” Dirk said after they’d let it simmer for an hour.

It did. The surface was a noxious green instead of the pleasant, glistening silver it was supposed to be.

“Don’t worry,” Grace assured, crushing up some rose petals in her mortar and pestle. “I’m making approximate Amortentia.”

“Approximate Amortentia?”

“It’s like Amortentia but not as strong. You just throw in the same ingredients slapdash and then add rose petals to get them to bind better. It’ll still look and smell right, but the effect isn’t quite the same.” Grace dumped the ground rose petals into the cauldron. “Dad taught it to me last year. It’s how he managed to get an O on his N.E.W.T. Potions.”

“Thank your dad for me,” Dirk said as Grace gave the cauldron a quick stir and the color changed from green to scintillating white.

The scent of the potion was thick and strong. Grace took a deep breath, and found herself strangely at ease as the flurry of smells swept over her. Grace was hit by the scent of freshly baked apple pie, the salty sea air of Falmouth, the sweet cool of her mother’s homemade pumpkin juice.

She let the familiar scents wash over her, let her memory taste the pie and feel the wind and guzzle down the juice—until she was hit by a scent she couldn’t quite place. It was familiar, but subtly so. Grace tried to wrestle down the smell, tried to catalogue it, but as she leaned closer and closer, Dirk suddenly yelped and closed the cauldron with a lid.

“Oh, my _God_,” Dirk breathed, white as a sheet.

She wheeled to him in surprise. “What? What happened?”

“I just—I can’t believe—I mean, really now?” he babbled.

She waved a hand in front of him. “Hellooo—”

He swatted her hand away and looked at her. “Abbott!” he cried out, eliciting a strange look from the next table over.

Grace shushed him. “What about Abbott?”

“It’s _her_,” he said, gesturing at the cauldron. “I’m—I mean—how is that even possible?”

“Huh. Sort of makes sense though, doesn’t it? You’ve been after her since first year,” she pointed out.

“Yeah—to sell her Muggle-born merchandise!” Dirk sputtered out. “Not because I _fancy_ her!”

“Are you sure about that? I mean—have you written and performed dramatic epics for any other pure-blood on behalf of the Smugglers’ Society? Have you sung ballads to any other—”

“She’s just a tough customer!”

“Yeah, sure.”

“Grace!”

She stifled a snicker. “Alright, alright, calm your knickers. You know what—it’s probably not even her. How can you be sure?”

“She presses violets in between the pages of her books. It’s that exact smell! Violets and stained paper.”

Grace’s amused smile slipped away slowly. “Paper?”

“Yeah.”

She lifted the lid off the cauldron and inhaled deeply. The smell was back again—fusty, old, but there was some fresh edge to it, some second scent. But Grace knew what the first one was now. It was paper—old parchment, pages from musty books and ancient tomes. And as soon as she had that first scent down, she knew what the second was: broomstick polish, the expensive sort, the one Regulus ordered from Quality Quidditch Supplies, the one he’d stain his hands with after cleaning down his broomstick.

“Oh,” Grace said, because she understood now. This was the scent of Regulus’s hands: old paper and costly broomstick polish.

And, against her better judgement, she glanced over to the other side of the classroom. Rosier was still stirring, but they must have been near finished, because Regulus was hovering by, sniffing.

“Me and a pure-blood,” Dirk continued to babble. He buried his face in his hands. “What’s the world coming to?”

Regulus stood by the cauldron for a few more moments before grimacing and growing queasy. Eventually, like Dirk, he covered the bubbling potion with a lid, trapping the scent inside.

Grace’s insides squirmed. What could have been so off-putting about the smell that Regulus needed to cover it? Was it _her_ he smelled in there? Did he not like it? Or—even worse—was it _not_ her? Was it Myrcella Rosier and that sickly sweet perfume her mother had recently sent her?

“Probably stink pellets,” Dirk said suddenly, tearing Grace away from her reverie.

She spun to him. “What?”

“That Black smelled.”

She stared at him helplessly. “What are you talking about?”

“He probably smelled your blasted stink pellets,” Dirk said matter-of-factly. “You use them in a prank at least twice every year.”

Her cheeks burned viciously. “I don’t…I mean—Merlin, Dirk! You can’t just _say_ things like that.”

“What? I can’t tell you my observations?”

“Your observations are _wrong_,” she told him hotly. Good Godric—she’d just about die of embarrassment if it turned out that her identifying smell was a _stink pellet_.

“Oh, please,” he scoffed. “Let’s review the facts, shall we? Black always makes that face when you burst stink pellets—”

“If you keep talking, I’m going to tell Abbott you don’t wash your hands after using the loo.”

“I don’t care what you tell her,” Dirk sniffed. “I refuse to believe it’s her violets I’m smelling. We did it wrong or something. The potion’s off.”

Grace wasn’t quite sure about that. She’d smelled the pie and the seaside and the pumpkin juice, too, and she _knew_ without a shred of doubt that she loved those scents, the places and people they represented, the feeling of warmth and home they held. How could the approximate Amortentia get that right and the rest wrong?

Her eyes wavered back to the other side of the classroom. She traced over Regulus’s slight face, the hollow of his cheek, the weak tremble of his chin. He had entered with his hair brushed back neatly, but after all the brewing, it had gotten a bit mussed. A stray lock fell over his forehead. Grace wanted to tuck it away.

“You know,” Dirk said. “The staring wouldn’t be _that_ creepy if you’d at least blink once in a while.”

Grace whipped around so fast, she nearly toppled over their cauldron of bubbling Amortentia. “What?” she said wildly.

He rolled his eyes. “So—” he leaned forward, head propped by his hand, “what’d you smell in yours? No, wait, let me guess… Black’s luscious dark hair? His expensive, pure-blood cologne? His—”

Grace frowned. “Shut up, Dirk.”

She didn’t know why she felt so combative to the idea, but she was. It felt like some sick trick. It felt like nothing was going the way she wanted it to. It felt impossible, and it was cruel of the Amortentia to smell the way it did.

For what might have been the first time in all seven years of knowing him, the mischievous glint in Dirk’s eye faded. His lips dropped into a worried little grimace.

“Hey—you know I’m only joking, right?” he said.

She glanced at him. Guilt pricked her. “Yeah—I... Yeah,” she mumbled.

“Good.” He paused a moment, and then added, “Are you okay?”

His eyes shone with such honest concern, that Grace found herself unable to lie. She eased herself forward, elbows landing onto the edge of her table. She stared into the swirling mother-of-pearl sheen of their potion. The subtle scent of old paper and polish wormed its way into her nose once more. The black ink of the Dark Mark, the angry raw-red rash of Dragon Pox, her brother’s puffy, tired eyes flashed through her mind.

The world seemed to be built out of problems and riddles, each wrapping around the other trickily, neverendingly. It was tiring to unravel a world like that—carefully, piece by piece—but Grace had to. There was too much at stake.

“No,” she replied, “but I will be.”

_I must be._

* * *

At lunch, Grace found Greengrass in her usual spot at the very end of the Slytherin table. The auburn-haired girl was hunched over some dull book, mechanically scooping chowder from her bowl into her mouth without lifting her eyes from the page she was reading.

Grace ambled forward with her own stack of books and dumped them all onto the table. Greengrass nearly jumped out of her seat, accidentally flinging her spoonful of white chowder onto a nearby second-year.

“Must you make a racket everywhere you go?” she hissed.

“How else would you know I was here?” Grace retorted.

Greengrass narrowed her eyes at Grace before deciding it wasn’t worth it and returning her gaze down to her book. Grace sat down opposite Greengrass and began to organize her teetering stack of books, all of which were on the subject of runic scripts. The longer Grace examined Vablatsky’s journal, the more sure she was that the old professor hadn’t been using any formal script. It was some blend of scripts—or perhaps her own personal style. Whatever runic language Vablatsky had used, Grace was sure it was only a matter of time before she managed to crack it.

As Grace rummaged through her bag for the journal, she found the spellbound sheet she had meant to give Greengrass the other day.

“Oh, right,” she said quietly, fishing out the paper. Amidst all the drama of brewing Amortentia, she had promptly forgotten all about Anita’s news.

As Grace pulled out the parchment, she found there were already paragraphs and paragraphs of text. Colvin, it seemed, had already begun writing to Greengrass. Grace’s eyes fled over the neat scrawl:

> _Hello, my love! The woman we’re staying with has a granddaughter who’s stationed near Hogwarts, and she managed to get me this sheet. We can use it to send messages to each other. I couldn’t believe it when I first got it. It’s so dreadfully dull here, and I miss you, Fee. I miss the jade green of your eyes and the soft curl of your hair and the warm press of your lips and…_

Grace flushed and tore her eyes away from the parchment instantly, feeling very much like she had intruded on something. She folded the paper in half and held it out towards Greengrass.

The Prefect harrumphed at the intrusion and sidled away from Grace, ignoring her. Grace batted around the paper, waving it wildly in front of Greengrass, and it was only when Grace nearly took her eye out with the corner that she finally looked up.

“What?” she spat. “What do you want?”

“Er—do you remember when I told you about the spellbound sheets?”

“Yes,” she said flatly.

“Well, I found someone who managed to get one to Colvin. This one’s your half, so now you two can keep in contact.”

Greengrass frowned at her, looking very much like she didn’t want to believe Grace. But hope won over skepticism, and Greengrass plucked the paper out of Grace’s grasp. As she read through the writing, Grace returned to her journal, flipping open to the page she had bookmarked with Sophia.

She had managed to translate some standard words: runes like ‘good’ and ‘bad,’ and so on. But whenever there was a rune of some value, Grace found that she couldn’t find its translation in any of the standard books. She always managed to find something approximate, though. Currently, she had a list of meanings—all ranging from ‘slow’ to ‘pineapple’—for just one rune.

Grace began to comb through her textbooks, but she was soon interrupted by some pointed coughing. She looked up, and found Greengrass—cheeks pinched with the faintest pink—watching her.

“Yeah?”

“Did you read this?” Greengrass asked, voice steely.

“What?” Grace said, unable to meet Greengrass’s eyes. She made a very big show of flipping through her library book for nothing in particular. “Read what? Do I look like the sort of person who reads?”

Greengrass stared at her for a moment longer. Grace was acutely aware of the warmth of her cheeks. Finally, Greengrass broke eye contact, gave a jerky sort of nod, and returned to look at the parchment.

Grace returned to the journal, very much hoping that was the end of that. But it was only a minute later that she was interrupted:

“So…this is really her?” Greengrass croaked out. Her fingers ran over the sheet like she wanted the words to crawl out of the paper and into her heart. “It’s really Lila writing?”

“Yes,” Grace said. She rummaged through her knapsack and pulled out a quill and ink pot. She passed it over to Greengrass and nodded at the piece of parchment. “You can ask her anything—check if it really is Colvin.”

Greengrass grasped the end of the quill and hastily began to scribble out what seemed to be the beginning of a novel. Grace watched bemusedly for a moment before tearing her eyes away, returning to the journal. She honestly couldn’t say for sure that any of this effort was worth it, but she hoped it would be. If this was a journal of prophecies, all handwritten by one of the most famed Seers of the century, all about Grace, then…surely it would have some answers, right? Surely it would tell her what to do about Regulus and if her parents would be okay and how much of what James was doing was _actually_ for the Auror Office and how much was for Dumbledore.

Grace’s eyes caught onto ‘sight’ rune, the one Sophia had so proudly translated in the library. She had checked nearly every book, and while it seemed sight might be closest, it wasn’t quite right. There was something missing, but she wasn’t sure what. 

“I didn’t know you knew runes.”

Grace looked up, and found that instead of being in the seat across from her, Greengrass was now hovering over Grace’s shoulder.

“What in the—” Grace spluttered, and covered the page she was translating. “How did you do that?”

Greengrass’s gaze wavered to the list of possible rune translations Grace had made. “Oh, you’re an amateur,” Greengrass said, ignoring the question.

“I—er—yeah, sure,” Grace said hastily. “This is just for fun.”

“Right…” she said slowly, entirely disbelieving. “Anyway, that’s not any standard rune.” She pointed at the ‘sight’ rune Grace had drawn at the top of her list. “It’s a conjugation, but a rare one. Medieval. They used to add the arrow when they wanted to represent a verb as a noun.”

“Yeah, I know that,” Grace said flatly. “So it’s ‘sight,’ not ‘to see.’”

“Not exactly. They used to that form specifically to describe professions. So, ‘to write’ would become ‘a writer.’ ‘To garden’ would become ‘gardener.’ And so—”

“Merlin’s beard!” Grace cried out. “So this is _Seer_! That’s what—_oh_, so the next rune makes this whole phrase the _Seer’s_ obstacle.”

Grace moved her hand and showed Greengrass the following rune.

“Yeah,” she said, squinting at the rune, “but it’s a less formal version. It’s more like the Seer’s misstep. A bump in the road. A snag.” She frowned. “That sounds sort of familiar, actually. I think I might have read something like this before.” She bent closer, tracing over the sentence. “Something about a Seer being stuck…something about making, but that rune looks weird. Probably stylistic choices. Oh—this one here’s—er—slow?” She frowned. “The handwriting is irritating. I can’t tell what case this is supposed to be.”

“I got that ages ago,” Grace said, following Greengrass’s finger. “It’s ‘slow progress.’”

Greengrass shrugged and her hand retreated. “Probably.” Her eyes met Grace’s. “What’s this for, by the way? You’re not in Ancient Runes.”

“It’s for fun,” Grace repeated, albeit somewhat defensively. “Er—look—” she pointed blindly at the spellbound sheet across from her, “—I think Colvin wrote back.”

Greengrass hurried back to her side of the table, reaching for the quill once more. They spent the rest of lunch like that: Greengrass scribbling, Grace translating. It was only when students began to filter out of the Great Hall that they exchanged words again.

“By the way,” Greengrass began hesitantly, “thank you for—er—you know.” She waved the sheet, which she had rolled tightly and bound with string. “And about that day in the Hospital Wing—”

“It’s okay,” Grace said easily. “I was being a prat.”

Greengrass relaxed. “Glad you’re aware of that facet of your identity.” She paused unsurely, watching Grace squeeze her many books into her bag, and added, “Have you finished Flitwick’s essay yet?”

“Er—no?”

To her surprise, Greengrass simply nodded. “Good. We can work on it together.”

“We can?”

“Yes. I’ll see you in the library after dinner?”

“You will?”

Greengrass frowned. “Can you stop doing that?”

Grace grinned. “Can I?”

The taller girl huffed and turned away. “Don’t be late,” she said before striding away.

* * *

The phrase Greengrass had translated as ‘Seer’s obstacle’ or ‘Seer’s snag’ cropped up an awful lot in Vablatsky’s journal. It was mentioned at least once every couple of pages, and after Sophia gave Grace a quick course on the different runic forms for proper nouns, Grace realized that this snag Vablatsky had documented wasn’t just a one-time thing. It was some actual event.

She scoured the library for anything related to Seers and snags but couldn’t find anything—but she didn’t lose hope. Greengrass had mentioned Vablatsky’s style was more medieval; perhaps that was because some of the phrases _were_ medieval. And a lot of ancient events were rather gruesome. And if it was gruesome enough, then it wouldn’t be in the usual shelves of the library.

It would be in the Restricted Section.

“Alright,” Grace said, eyeing an eager Sophia, “so after I give you the signal—”

“I run over to Pince and just start _screaming_,” the younger girl burst. “I’ll wave my hands around, too—like this—” she began to rotate her arms in a windmill-like fashion.

Grace stopped her. “Er—no, no. You don’t need to do that. Just stick to the plan. Scream to grab her attention, and then ferry her over to the burning books.”

The glint in Sophia’s eye vanished. She gnawed at her bottom lip worriedly. “But won't you get in trouble for burning the books?”

“Oh, no, don’t worry. It’s not real fire,” Grace assured. She raised her wand and gave it a short swish. From the tip emerged a warm orange flame.

Grace ran her finger along the flickering fire. It did little more than tickle her. She offered the flame to Sophia, who shut both eyes and hesitantly reached forward. As soon as hand met flame, Sophia gasped.

“It doesn’t hurt at all!” she marveled, smiling. She began to pet the flame. “Can you teach me that? I can use it on Preston during breakfast tomorrow.”

“Later,” Grace promised. She gave her wand another wave, snuffing out the fire. “Now, go on and distract Pince.”

Sophia nodded, gave Grace a soldier’s salute, and promptly dashed through the maze of bookshelves. Grace aimed her wand at the shelf they had been loitering by, and promptly set it on (fake) fire. She inched away quietly, settling deep into the library, just a few steps shy of the Restricted Section.

“Madam Pince!” she heard Sophia cry out. “Madam Pince, come quick! There’s a _fire_! Oh, it’s absolutely horrible, isn’t it, Madam Pince? Who would set _fire_ to all these wonderful books! There’s so much wisdom shelved onto these—er—shelves, and someone just came and set it on _fire_—”

“Stop your blathering, girl, and show me to the place!”

“Of course, Madam Pince. It’s over here. I just—” Sophia let out an undignified sob, “—can’t _believe_ someone would do this. All that history—lost!”

Grace pressed her knuckles against her mouth, barely stifling a laugh. She strained her ears as she heard a wailing Sophia lead Pince further and further into the library, and father and father away from where Grace was stationed. Grinning, Grace slinked into the Restricted Section. She fished her wand out of her pocket.

“Accio books about Seer’s snag,” she said, and immediately regretted it as no less than twenty books dashed off the shelves and raced towards her.

Grace ducked, and they collided roughly against the back wall. Wincing and hoping desperately Pince wouldn’t head over to investigate, Grace quickly gathered the books, stuffing as many as could fit into her bag and gathering the rest in her arms. She snuck through the shelves, and caught sight of a furious Pince fanning out the flames. Behind her was an aghast Sophia, bemoaning the lack of respect kids nowadays showed for libraries. Grace shot Sophia a beaming smile as she left. The Ravenclaw responded with a covert thumbs up.

As soon as Grace made it out of the library, she sped down the hallways and towards the basement. Once Pince realized her books were missing, she’d search through every dormitory in Hogwarts. The only place Grace figured she would be safe was the kitchens.

“Hullo, Pokey!” Grace said brightly as she slipped inside the bustling place.

She was such a frequent visitor that hardly any of the other house-elves paid her notice. Pokey scurried over, purple ears pert, producing a plate of apple pie from nowhere. “Miss Grace hungry?”

Grace beamed. “Oh, _starving_. Thanks, Pokey.”

With her warm slice of pie and her heavy knapsack, Grace settled down by the hearth. She flipped her bag upside down, letting her stolen books tumble out. She sorted through them quickly, ordering them based on age. With a mouthful of pie, she reached for what appeared to be the oldest book, and flipped through the pages until she caught sight of what she was looking for:

> _Whan a child born of familie with no Syghte growes with Divinnatoree power, you shal find they shake and screem from the siknesse of the Inner Eyen. This Snagge of Seer bifel a lyne of symple stalke spynners and the doghter swapte with no breeth oon day._

The text was so dense and the script so tiny and strangely written that Grace found she could not continue. All she managed to glean was that this Seer’s snag was connected to the Inner Eye—something Vablatsky had brought up sparingly in class. She never went into much detail about it; all Grace really knew was that the strength of a Seer’s ability was dependent on how attuned their Eye was with the realm of divination.

She chose a more modern book next, one that seemed less a historical account and more a medical encyclopedia. As she flipped through the pages, she was met with ghastly images of contorted limbs and pus-filled gashes. It wasn’t until she reached the section on magi-neurological diseases that she found an entry on Seer’s snag:

> _Witches and wizards of old believed the epileptic fugues their children suffered were the consequence of a young Seer’s Inner Eye not having opened successfully at birth. This was a common belief back in the time of Mopsus, but it has since been disproved, most notably by Sir Charles of Lyons in the eighteenth century, who collected several young children supposedly affected by Seer’s snag and asked that they predict the outcome of that year’s Quidditch World Cup. No child predicted the correct winner, Burma._

Grace found herself rolling her eyes. If these kids’ Inner Eyes weren’t working properly, then their predictions obviously wouldn’t be correct, now would they?

> _The common consensus nowadays is that what was formerly known as Seer’s snag is actually a young witch or wizard’s inability to channel their magical energy. This often manifests in a lack of magical talent as a child and, later, in aching headaches and seizures. The condition is referred to as paroxysm via magical strain (common name: Hywell’s disease, after Lavinia Hywell, who was the first to document the increase of strain in children’s temporal lobes)._

The page ended. Grace flipped to the next one, but found a new entry had begun. She turned back to the previous page and stared blankly at the words. _Paroxysm via magical strain. Hywell’s disease_.

“That’s not possible,” she breathed, because surely _someone_ would have told her, right? Then again, it wasn’t as if Healers were clamoring for Divination-centric explanations for diseases, now where they? Quite the opposite, in fact; Grace was yet to find any Healer who was at least interested in Divination.

She stared unsurely at the entry in the book. It was very reluctant to believe that such a thing as Seer’s snag existed and, honestly, if Vablatsky hadn’t written about it so explicitly in her journal, Grace doubted she’d believe in it, too.

She reached for another book, desperate to find more insight. As she fluttered from page to page, from text to text, she found a common theme: the older the book, the more it espoused the existence of Seer’s snag. The more recent, the more it belittled the idea. None of the texts provided any specifics. It was all the same: painful seizures and convulsions, unacclimated magical power, possible link to Divination, and so on.

It wasn’t until Grace reached the final book of the lot that she found something actually interesting:

> _Modern Healers are quick to write off Seer’s snag as a relic of the past, but the affliction is prevalent to this day. Caoimhe Stiobhard, born 1809 to a family with no history of the Sight, was plagued by Seer’s snag starting from the age of three. She was possessed by crippling fits until the age of eleven, when she was introduced to a wand and subsequently able to open her Inner Eye fully (see: The Divinatory Power of Wands). Of course, the epileptic dimension to her Seeing transformed into something ‘bordering insanity,’ as her sister later recalled. The power of the Inner Eye is not one to be taken lightly. Ancient Seers recorded stories of true Seers—those with unfettered access to the Inner Eye—that had gone mad from the onslaught of visions. Similarly, Caoimhe Stiobhard buckled under the full weight of the future. At the age of sixteen, she plummeted off a cliffside as she recited a prophecy about flying Muggles._

Grace numbly shut the book and tossed it into the pile. She wasn’t completely unaware of this particular facet of Hywell’s. Healer Kane had told her many years ago that the mortality rate for the condition was very high in the past, but that was only because people back then didn’t have the potions they did now.

Grace sighed and reached for Vablatsky’s journal. She wasn’t sure how much she believed in this. She did believe there was true power in Divination, but she’d never thought to stop and consider how _much_ power. She didn’t think there was much to the art beyond card reading and tea leaves. She’d heard stories about prophecies—real ones, with rhymes and everything—but those were, after all, stories.

But if Vablatsky had written about Seer’s snag, if she had compiled this entire notebook about the subject, Grace could hardly be expected to ignore that. There must be some shred of truth buried in the topic.

Grace thumbed back the cover of the journal. Resting in the corner was her name, like always, but now it carried a different sort of weight. Vablatsky didn’t write any prophecies concerning Grace. She wrote about Grace’s condition and its link to Seer’s snag. This journal was about her potential, her capacity to be a _true_ Seer.

Grace took a deep breath and closed the book. She leaned forward and cradled the crown of her head in her palms. The words from the books floated through her mind: _Unfettered access to the Inner Eye. Divinnatoree power. The full weight of the future. _Snatches of conversation from the past few weeks intermingled with her thoughts: _Hogwarts isn’t impervious, you know… I took the Mark during the summer… Dumbledore’s recruited me for an anti-Dark Wizard taskforce…_

The faintest inkling of a plan began to gather in Grace’s mind.

* * *

Grace spent the entire night perfecting her plan, organizing it into phases, researching Death Eater activity using old _Prophet_ articles, re-organizing it into different phases, rummaging through Vablatsky’s old room for more information about the Inner Eye, and so on. It wasn’t until she was settled in Transfiguration, her first class of the day, that she felt confident enough to tell Regulus about what she’d been up to. She pulled out her half of their spellbound sheets, and set to writing:

> _I know you probably don’t want to hear from me, but—_

She left off right there, because the words she wrote didn’t fade. They clung to the yellow of the parchment stubbornly. Frowning, Grace dipped her quill in its ink pot again and scribbled over the paper, waiting for the dark ink to seep into the paper and disappear. As second after second ticked by, as the words refused to leave, Grace’s heart sunk deeper and deeper.

He’d destroyed his half of the sheet.

“What in Salazar’s name _are_ you doing?”

Grace twisted round, and saw Greengrass looking pointedly at Grace’s ruined sheet of parchment.

“Er, nothing,” she said moodily, crumpling up the paper and tossing it into her bag. She took out a fresh roll of parchment. “I was just testing out my quill.”

“Seems to be working.”

Grace nodded absently and began to copy down McGonagall’s notes from the blackboard, but found her heart wasn’t quite into trans-species transformations. She spent much of the class waiting for it to be over. The toad McGonagall had given her blinked up at her blankly and croaked furiously when she waved her wand over it. It was only after a couple of tries that she managed to transform it into a brightly-colored parrot. She set her wand down after that, and spent the rest of class glowering at nothing in particular, resisting the very strong urge to scowl in Regulus’s direction.

She couldn’t believe he’d gone and destroyed that sheet. Well—truth be told, she could believe it. She did say she never wanted to see him again. _I just…I dunno_, she thought restlessly, locked in a fierce staring contest with her beady-eyed parrot. _I just didn’t think he would let go so easily._

The rest of Transfiguration passed in a daze. As Grace filed out of the classroom with the other students, she was stopped.

“Miss Potter?” McGonagall called, drawing her to a halt.

Grace’s shoulders sagged and she turned on her heel, padding towards the stick-thin professor. “I _know_ how to do the transformations,” she promised McGonagall. “James taught me a modified spell. I can do it, I swear. I was just feeling tired today.”

McGonagall stared at her for one long moment, and then said, “James…devised a spell to simplify trans-species transformations?”

“Yeah, he did it in sixth year.” Grace frowned tightly. And _she_ had come up with a version of Skele-Gro that dulled the excruciating side effects in fourth year, but it wasn’t as if McGonagall cared about that.

“Of course he did,” the old professor said fondly. “In any case, I did not hold you back to discuss your performance today—which was rather good, mind you. I wanted to ask if you would be able to commentate Friday’s Quidditch match?”

“I—_what_?”

“Finchley will be serving detention with his Head of House that evening, and will be unable to commentate. As such, we’re in need of a replacement.”

“And you want _me_ to do it?”

“You have a passion for the sport, a penchant for humor, and—most importantly—you know the rules. You were also recommended by Mr. Gudgeon. He seems to think you would do a wonderful job.”

Grace held back her groan. _Of course_ that was what this was.

“I’m sorry, Professor,” she said immediately, shouldering her bag, “but I don’t really think I’ve got the time.”

McGonagall’s brows flew up. “But this is one of the most important games of the season.”

Grace bit the inside of her cheek. How come no one saw how utterly ridiculous it was to play Quidditch in the midst of a _war_? Did McGonagall and Gudgeon really expect her to climb into that commentator’s booth and relay scores and passes as Muggle-borns went into hiding? As James hunted down Death Eaters? As her parents sat in their hospital cots?

“Surely you’d want to support your fellow House members?” McGonagall continued.

Grace wanted to laugh. The last thing she wanted to do was see her fellow Slytherins flying around obnoxiously. Merlin, she didn’t even want to see Regulus wasting time playing—

Wait.

That was right, _Regulus_ would be playing in Friday’s game. And if Grace couldn’t write or speak to him, perhaps she could commentate at him. If she was in that booth Friday evening, he’d have no choice but to hear what she had to say.

“Alright, you’ve convinced me, Professor. I’ll do it.”

* * *

“They’re really putting on a match in _this_ weather?” Greengrass said, wrinkling her nose as she glanced up at the darkening sky.

Grace wrapped her scarf around her neck tighter as the autumn wind blustered around them. The sky was covered in thick, grey clouds. Any light that managed to make it through the congested canopy was shadowed and weak.

“It’s not great,” Grace agreed.

“They should at least put warming charms on the stands,” Greengrass continued to mutter. “Merlin knows they do it at the World Cup.”

“You know you don’t have to come to the match.”

“And miss you making a complete fool of yourself in the commentator’s booth? I don’t think so.”

“Keep that up, Greengrass, and I’ll start shouting rumors about you once I’m in the booth.”

She rolled her eyes. “I’m only kidding. In any case, today’s game _will_ be an interesting one. Everyone except for Slytherin is rooting for Ravenclaw.”

“Makes sense,” Grace shrugged. Relations between the Houses had been fraught for the past two years. Slytherin had few supporters. “To be honest, I couldn’t care less about the outcome. I just want this whole thing to be over with as quickly as possible. Being trapped in a small room with McGonagall is _not_ my idea of a pleasant Friday evening.”

“You might get your wish.” Greengrass eyed the darkening horizon worriedly. “If lightning strikes a player, they’re sure to call off the game, right?”

“They’d probably just pull in a substitute.”

“What?” she gasped. “Really? But what if they’re _dead_?”

“Does it matter if they’re dead? There’s still a game to be won.” Grace meant for it to come out as a joke, but she was so tired she sounded completely serious.

Greengrass eyed her warily. “Renard would like you. He lives and breathes Quidditch. Although, I’ve noticed that he’s not so—”

“Grace!” a distant voice cried out.

Both Greengrass and Grace twisted around, and found a uniformed Davey Gudgeon jogging towards them.

“Merlin,” Grace groaned quietly. “Why me? Why is it always me?”

“I can hex him for you,” Greengrass offered. “Madam Pomfrey has complimented my pus-squirting spell.”

“As much as I’m curious to see that out, I think McGonagall and Hooch would have our heads if we hexed the captain of the Ravenclaw team right before the game.”

“How would they know it’s us?”

“I—” Grace’s brows rose, “—well, when you phrase it like _that_, Greengrass—”

“Grace!” Davey said again once he was close enough.

Grace’s mouth snapped shut and she turned to Davey with barely-masked irritation. “Yes?”

“Saw you were headed over to field, and thought I’d walk with you and—er—” he glanced at Greengrass. “Hello.”

“Hello,” Greengrass responded flatly. She looked him up and down, and frowned. “You were walking the same way we were?”

“Yeah.” He gave her a beaming smile. Greengrass’s frown deepened. “Serendipity, right?”

“We came from the Slytherin common room.”

“Er—yeah—I was—er…” He pointed suddenly at the Quidditch stands. “Hey, we’d better get on before they start the game without us.” He inserted himself between Greengrass and Grace as they began to walk towards the stands. “Heard you’d be commentating today, Grace. How’re you feeling about it?”

She glanced up at Davey, thoroughly unimpressed. He winked at her. She briefly considered asking him what in Merlin’s name compelled him to recommend her as a commentator to McGonagall before deciding she’d rather not know.

“I’m feeling great,” she said in a tone that conveyed anything but.

His smiled wondered. “I’m glad! I know you’ll do great. Do me a favor and stick around after the match, yeah? I’ve got—” a shrill whistle broke through the air. Hooch was out in the field, glaring at Davey. He winced. “Er—sorry, I should have been there five minutes ago. I’ll catch you later. Can’t wait to hear what you’ve got to say about me!” He gave her one last grin before dashing off.

“Wow,” Greengrass remarked as he fled to the part of the pitch reserved for Ravenclaw. “Didn’t he break up with you?”

“Yeah, and every day I thank my stars for it.”

“Then why is he…?”

“I think he’s just dumb,” Grace supplied.

“Ah,” Greengrass said, and nodded in understanding.

Grace jabbed a thumb at the commentator’s booth. “I’d better head up. I’ll see you after the match?”

“If I don’t die of frostbite,” Greengrass said darkly before turning on her heel and making a beeline for the Slytherin stands.

Grace began the climb up to the rickety booth. McGongall was already inside, seated primly besides the microphone, hair bunched into her usual tight bun, lips settled into a displeased grimace, hands clasped together in her lap.

“Hullo, Professor,” Grace greeted as she stepped inside. “See you wore your Quidditch gear.” McGonagall, who was dressed in her usual tartan robes, didn’t even crack a smile. “Er—just a joke…”

McGonagall raised a brow.

Grace hurried over and sat besides the old Transfiguration teacher. She tugged the microphone close to her and tapped on it. “So, how does this thing work?”

A flurry of laughs fell over the stands. Grace jumped at the sound. She looked out of the large, panoramic window and saw students pointing up at the booth, at her.

“Oh, Merlin—it’s already on, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“Er—right—” Grace willed herself to be less flustered. “So, the teams…?”

Down below, Hooch blew her whistle. The Ravenclaw team emerged from the side, Davey Gudgeon at the head, chest puffed out, beaming brightly. Lined up behind him was the rest of the team. McGonagall slid Grace a paper with a list of names.

“Right,” Grace said, squinting down at the names. “So there’s the Captain, Davey. Davey Gudgeon, I mean. He’s a Beater, too. Next to—”

“Would you mind beginning by announcing _which_ team this is, Miss Potter?” McGonagall said.

“Oh, right, yeah, ‘course,” Grace fumbled. She cleared her throat. “This is the Ravenclaw team. Gudgeon’s Captain and Beater. I said that already. Anyway, next to him are the Chasers: Klaus Caldwell, Mira Bannerjee, and Lionel Reekie. Then the other Beater is Hilda Finley. The Keeper is Polonia Tabard. And the Seeker is Augustus Boot.”

She was thankful for the fact that much of her subpar recitation was drowned out by the wild cheers coming from the Ravenclaw, Gryffindor, and Hufflepuff stands.

“From the other end,” Grace continued once Hooch motioned for the opposing team, “are the Slytherins.” She leaned closer towards the window, sweeping over the line of green-clothed players. Renard was up front, looking, somehow, irritated by the fact there was a game going on, as though it were some big inconvenience to him. The others seemed similarly put-out. “At the front we’ve got Captain and Chaser Felix Renard. Next to him are fellow Chasers Rebecca Pucey and Damien Renko. Besides them are Beaters Sebastian Selwyn and Lorena Ludwig. Then we’ve got Keeper Herwick Snyde. And lastly—er—Seeker Regulus Black.”

He didn’t seem particularly enthused about the game, either. Grace felt that this might be, in part, due to the fact that the cheers from the Slytherin stands were being drowned out by booing from the other Houses. Grace winced as Slytherins abandoned their cheers in favor of yelling at the other stands.

“Right,” she began hastily, bringing the microphone close to her, “let’s—er—start the game, then. Madam Hooch?”

Hooch released the Bludgers and Snitch as the players mounted their brooms. She walked to the center of the field and threw up the Quaffle. Renard and Pucey immediately rammed into the Ravenclaw Chasers, allowing Renko to grab hold of the Quaffle.

“Oh—whoa—Caldwell, Bannerjee, and—er—forgot the last one’s name—”

“Reekie,” McGongall reminded her.

“Right. Reekie. So they’re barricaded from the Quaffle—okay, wait, forget all that, actually. Something else has happened. Renko throws his Quaffle to Renard, but then Caldwell intercepts—but then—oh, _wow_—Selwyn and Ludwig are doing tricks with one of the Bludgers. That’s neat, actually. I’ve never seen that before.”

They were controlling a Bludger by batting it between themselves. Their plan, it seemed, was to swing it towards the Ravenclaw Keeper to stop her from blocking a Slytherin goal, but only when the timing was right.

“Potter,” McGonagall reprimanded. “It would be better if you could commentate _while_ you watch.”

“Yeah, I’m doing that,” Grace insisted. “Anyway—so, they’re doing their Bludger tricks. Very nice. And then…who’s got the Quaffle?” Her eyes scanned through the players, trying to spot the red ball.

“Caldwell.”

“Ah, thanks. So he’s got the Quaffle… Doesn’t seem to be doing anything with it, just trying to avoid the Slytherin Chasers. Good luck with that. Selwyn and Ludwig are still doing their Bludger tricks. Merlin’s beard—it’s honestly _really_ impressive. Am I the only one astounded by this? I mean, that Bludger’s charmed to be volatile and move in random patterns, but they’re managing to just keep it right—”

“_Potter_—”

“Right, Professor. Sorry—er… So, Caldwell’s still got that Quaffle. He’s making a beeline for the Slytherin goals. Chucks it. And—_oof_—Snyde fails to block. Ten points to Ravenclaw.”

A wave of cheers chorused from all stands, save the Slytherin one. A crack of thunder issued from the skies, intermingling with the whoops and cries. Grace glanced up at the dark grey of the sky. She craned her neck further up, and saw a brief flash of lightning amongst the thickly knotted array of clouds.

Grace began to seriously consider that Greengrass might be right: if the storm worsened, the game could be cancelled. She’d better get her message out to Regulus as quickly as possible.

Grace grasped the microphone and pulled it close to her. “Pucey dives past the Ravenclaw goals and gets her hands on the Quaffle. She’s _coming_ and _going_, really taking advantage of all that _room_ out there, staying well clear of the rival Chasers.” Her eyes flew to Regulus, who was hovering on the outskirts of the field, looking very bored. _Meet me in the Come and Go Room after dinner, you prat_. “Pucey angles for the Ravenclaw goals. Selwyn and Ludwig aim the Bludger they’ve corralled at Tabard, knocking her aside. Pucey chucks the Quaffle—and scores!” Hooch blew her whistle, pointing angrily at the Slytherin Beaters. “And Selwyn and Ludwig have received a warning about the stunt they just pulled. They’ll probably be serving detention _after dinner_ if they do that again. Anyway—Bannerjee’s managed to get to the Quaffle. She’s taking advantage of the _room_ as well—”

“Potter, the Snitch,” McGonagall said, pointing at a distant spot in the sky.

“The what?” Grace squinted at where she was pointing, but could hardly see anything amidst the roiling backdrop of the oncoming storm. “Er—there may or may not be a Snitch somewhere in the northwest corner of the field. I dunno. I can’t really see it.” Boot perked up at her words and sped off. Regulus remained where he was. “Anyway, back to the action. Gudgeon and Finley are aiming Bludgers at Selwyn and Ludwig, probably as revenge for—” she broke off and frowned as she saw Davey wave up at her. “Concentrate on the match, Davey. Merlin, your Keeper just got knocked in the head—”

“Potter!”

Grace swallowed her words and smiled sheepishly at McGonagall. “Er—right—so…the Quaffle… Where’d that little bugger go?”

McGonagall sighed deeply.

“No, wait, I’ve got it!” Grace squinted and caught sight of it in Renard’s arms. “Okay, somehow Slytherin got hold of the Quaffle. Dunno when that happened. Anyway, Renard’s angling for the Ravenclaw goals. Taking advantage of the clear field, all that ROOM—” Grace practically screamed out the word, “—out there. Shame the Ravenclaw team isn’t spreading out over all _room_ to accommodate—”

McGonagall tapped her wand against the microphone, silencing it. “_Potter_,” she seethed. “I don’t know what sort of joke you’re trying to get across, but if I hear any more mention of the word _room_—”

“It’s just Quidditch terminology!”

“It most certainly is not!”

McGonagall gave Grace another warning before tapping her wand against the microphone once more. Another blaze of lightning and peal of thunder issued from the sky. Grace leaned back, annoyed, and brought the microphone up to her.

“Renard swings the Quaffle at the Ravenclaw goals, but Tabard blocks,” she recounted with heavy boredom. “He doesn’t seem too miffed about it. And, you know what, neither am I. I know this game’s supposed to determine who’s in the lead for the Cup, but who _actually_ cares about that?”

“Potter…” McGonagall said warningly.

“Nothing’s happening!” Grace said defensively. “Look—the Ravenclaw and Slytherin Chasers are just squabbling over the Quaffle. It’ll probably be like this for a few minutes. Might as well talk about something else. Like—” Her eyes scanned across the field and she wrinkled her nose as she surveyed the dry, cracked, grey-yellow grass of the pitch. “Merlin—the field looks awful. My mum uses E-Z-Gro on her garden when the weather gets cold. I’d recommend it. Keeps the grass warm and moist—”

“Potter, need I remind you there is a _game_ going on?”

She sighed. “Okay… So Reekie managed to get the Quaffle. He’s heading for the Slytherin goals. He throws, and Snyde actually manages to block for once. Good on you, Snyde. I was beginning to think you were hopeless.” Snyde scowled angrily at the booth as laughter rippled through the stands. “Snyde chucks the Quaffle towards Pucey, but Bannerjee intercepts and throws it right back at the goals. Snyde fails to block, and Ravenclaw gets another ten points. Impressive display by the Ravenclaw team.”

A deafening roar erupted from the Ravenclaw stands. Bannerjee did a lap around the circuit, grinning.

“Caldwell picks up the fallen Quaffle, and does a—oh, _stop_ that, Davey.” Grace glowered as she caught sight of the Ravenclaw Beater winking at the commentator’s booth. He did a large spiral and waved down at the cheering Ravenclaw stands. “Honestly… Can we talk about this, actually? How come Quidditch players are so obsessed with drawing attention to themselves on the field? We get it. We know you can play Quidditch. We’re watching the bloody game, aren’t we?”

“_Potter_!” McGonagall screeched. “If you wouldn’t mind commenting on the _match_—”

“Alright, alright… Caldwell has the Quaffle. He aims it at the Slytherin goals. Ludwig aims a Bludger at him—and—_ouch_—it hits. Caldwell drops the Quaffle, and—and—oh—!” Grace shot up from her seat, microphone tight in hand as the Snitch, slight and golden, fluttered right outside the window of the booth. “The Snitch is _here_! Regulus, it’s right over here!”

“Potter!”

She flushed despite herself. “Er—I mean—Boot, Black, you better get on this before it disappears again.”

Boot was still exploring the faraway spot Grace had unintentionally led him to. He twisted around and tried to speed over to the booth in time, but Regulus was closer. The dark-haired Slytherin Seeker shifted from his spot high in the sky, angling his broomstick downward and dashing off towards the commentator’s booth. Outside the window, the Snitch was still fluttering, clunking clumsily against the glass.

“Black speeds towards the Snitch while Boot tries to catch up,” Grace rattled off, still standing. The grip she had on the microphone was so tight it was a miracle she hadn’t broken it. “The Slytherin and Ravenclaw Chasers are still juggling the Quaffle amongst themselves. Selwyn tries to knock a Bludger towards Boot to throw him off course, but Gudgeon bats it away before he gets the chance. Doesn’t seem to matter, though. Black’s almost there…”

Regulus was plummeting towards the window. Just when it seemed he might crash through it and into Grace, he stopped, reached out, and took the Snitch in his hands.

“He’s got it,” Grace croaked, only dimly aware of the ensuing cheers. Regulus was stopped right outside of the window. The first trickle of rain began to fall. His eyes caught onto hers. “He’s got the Snitch. Slytherin wins—170 to 20.”

And before Grace could fit in something else—_meet me at the Room, meet me there after dinner_—Regulus turned around and flew down to the center of the pitch, where his cheering teammates had landed. The Slytherin stands were emptying out rapidly, students piling together, jumping up and down, all screaming Regulus’s name. Grace’s heart twisted.

She thrust the microphone towards McGonagall, threw open the door to the booth, and hurried down the long, spindly stairs. The rain was coming down in sheets now, and Grace was instantly soaked. Her dark hair clung to her skin. She wiped at her eyes busily as she sped through the gathering crowd of Slytherins, trying to get to Regulus. She didn’t know what she was doing, just that the euphoria of the crowd had at least reached her, just that she wanted him to know she was still with him.

She reached the tight huddle of Slytherins, and was immediately sucked in.

“Three cheers for Black!” Renard roared, lifting him up along with Renko.

Slytherins all around them screamed in joy. Grace felt the cries vibrate in her chest. She pushed forward, clawing her way through the students, marching with them to the Slytherin’s side of the pitch. She looked up at Regulus as he looked down at the cheering crowd that surrounded him. He seemed faint with surprise. In his right hand, the Snitch struggled.

Grace felt a hand on her shoulder, and suddenly found herself face-to-face with Greengrass. The Prefect was similarly drenched, her light hair at least three shades darker and matted against her head.

“Shouldn’t we get back?” She was shouting out the words, but even then, Grace could barely hear.

“You can go,” Grace yelled back. “I’ve got to do something.”

Greengrass’s eyes glanced at Regulus before returning to Grace. Her gaze lost that icy, irritated quality. She seemed sorry. Grace didn’t like the look. She wasn’t chasing after something unattainable. She wasn’t lost or hopeless or deluded. Quite the opposite, in fact—she knew exactly where she was going and what she was doing.

She did not know if Regulus understood her strange messages, and she _needed_ to know.

“Despite everything?” Greengrass said. Her voice was like thunder.

“Despite everything,” Grace agreed.

“Alright.” Greengrass shoved her way through the crowd, until she was right by Renard. Then, she pressed her wand against her throat, and let out a booming, “OI! LISTEN TO ME, YOU TWATS!”

The cheers died out in an instant. Regulus was dropped from Renko and Renard’s shoulders.

“The Ravenclaws are arguing with Hooch about a foul,” Greengrass made up wildly, pointing at the faraway field. “I think they want a rematch—”

She didn’t have to say anymore. The effect was instantaneous. Renard let out a great cry of outrage, followed by the rest of his team. Angry mutters rippled through the crowd of Slytherins, who quickly re-assembled into a disgruntled mob. The whole lot stormed off, back to the field, to give the Ravenclaws a piece of their mind.

The rain continued to come down fast and hard. Grace turned her head away from the disappearing crowd of Slytherins and towards Regulus, who stood lone and wet right where the others had left him. His hair was slick and tousled back. His doused uniform clung to the lean muscle of his body. In his hands, still, was the caught Snitch—fluttering and straining against his grip.

His eyes locked onto Grace’s—silver into gold—and the breath was stolen straight from her lungs. Despite the chill air and her drenched robes, she felt inexplicably warm. Her heart hammered against her chest. She had spent all this while—nearly every excruciating minute of the past few days—perfecting her plan, figuring out exactly what it was she needed to do, what it was she had to say.

But any semblance of her plan fled from her mind completely. She stepped forward, the sole of her shoe digging into the wet soil. Regulus’s eyes flickered over her, and a shadow of panic passed over his face. He seemed to only just realize that this wasn’t any sort of dream. She was here. Right here. There was barely a meter of distance between them.

She was so close, so very close. She took another step. “I—”

“Hey!” a loud voice called over, and the moment was broken.

Grace nearly jumped out of her skin. She twisted around and saw, to her utter confusion, Davey Gudgeon rushing towards her, wet hair flopping against his forehead, Beater’s bat clutched tightly in one hand, broomstick in the other.

“Hey—” he panted when he was close enough, “—I was trying to find you after the game, but—”

White-hot irritation climbed up the back of her throat. “What do you _want_?” she spat out.

Davey stopped right in front of her, panting. “I was sort of hoping Ravenclaw would win this one, because I had a big gesture planned—fireworks and everything—but—”

She shook her head wildly, and his words faltered. “I—I don’t _care_, Davey. Merlin, can’t you move on?”

“Won’t you at least hear me out?”

“No, I absolutely won’t! _You_ broke up with _me_,” Grace said. “You said I was too flighty, too stubborn, too caught up with—”

“I know what I said, and… Grace, I’m sorry. We were both in the wrong then.” Davey ducked his head. “I was jealous.”

“_Jealous_?!” If she weren’t so irritated with him, she might have laughed.

“Of Black,” he said simply. “You were always spending more time with him than me. I figured maybe you were just using me to catch his attention. I dunno—I got too into my own head about it.” He brightened suddenly. “But this year, I noticed you two’ve split. I figured I might actually have a chance now

Grace gaped at him. “Are you out of your _mind_?” she said. “No—genuinely, Davey. Have you always been this thick? Of _course_ I spent a lot of time with Regulus in fifth year. His brother had just ran out on him!”

“Yeah, well—” Davey struggled. “Look, I’m not saying I was right about any of it. I’m just saying that _now_ I think—”

“I don’t care what you’ve got to say about now! Just because I’m not constantly around Regulus doesn’t mean we’re not still friends.”

“Friends?” Davey repeated in disbelief. “You do really expect me to believe that? When he scarpered the second I got here?”

Grace twisted around, and found, to her utter dismay, that Regulus had disappeared. It was like her stomach had been replaced by stone. That was it, then. Her chance—gone.

She turned back to Gudgeon and wished viciously that Greengrass had given her the incantation for that pus-squirting hex. “Davey Gudgeon, I swear to Merlin, if I ever—”

“You’re _really_ not going to hear me out on this?”

“I think I’ve heard enough!”

Davey opened his mouth, but before he could say anything, someone else did: “Gudgeon.”

Grace looked to her right, and warmth flared in her chest like the rising sun as she saw Regulus stare down Davey with a hate to rival his mother’s.

“I didn’t scarper,” Regulus said, and each word was biting. “I went to put my broomstick away.” He inclined his head to the side, where the broomstick shed lay a couple of yards away. “Sort of wish I hadn’t now, though, because it would have been dead useful to knock your brains out with—supposing you’ve got any to begin with, of course.”

Davey gaped at him. His eyes flickered back to Grace. She smiled at him smugly. After a moment of reconsideration, he simply shook his head, turned away, and began to stomp back the way he came. “I can’t _believe_ this,” he muttered as he left.

“‘Supposing you’ve got any to begin with’—good one,” Grace said, nodding her approval. She turned towards Regulus, and found that he had begun to walk away, too. Alarmed, she lunged forward to catch up with him. “Hold on!”

Regulus stopped, but remained just out of reach. His eyes refused to meet hers. “What is it?”

“We need to talk. I—a lot has happened since we last…met. I didn’t really listen before, and I should have. I’ve been thinking, and—”

Regulus shook his head, and the words blossoming at the base of Grace’s throat abruptly wilted and died. A nauseating dread crawled up her spine.

“What?” she asked. It came out like a whisper.

“We can’t talk.”

“No?”

“You said you didn’t listen before. Well, listen _now_. It’s better this way. You’ve got to go.”

She stared at him, unsure of what to make of this. In the distance, she could make out the faint grumbles of the Slytherin Quidditch team. They seemed to have realized Greengrass had lied about the possible rematch.

“Let’s meet later,” Grace offered. “In the Room. After dinner.”

“No.”

“Regulus…”

“Grace, _please_ go.” He held her eyes for a moment, and in the deep grey, Grace recognized the same pained loyalty she carried.

“If you’re okay, I’ll leave you alone,” she said. “If this is what you want, if this is it for you, if you’re happy, I’ll stop. Look me in the eye, and tell me you’re happy like this, Regulus.”

He couldn’t. He dropped his gaze from hers and turned back around again, heading towards the changing rooms. As he left, the Slytherin team returned, pushing through her. Grace stood resolute. She would not give in. She would not turn her back on him. She was Grace Potter—obnoxious and loud and unruly, unyielding in the way she helped, fierce in the way she loved, and, most importantly, stubborn till the very, very end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry if this one was a bit choppy! I’ve been busy finishing up college and moving, and I'm trying to get back into the groove of writing. I based the text in Middle English on Chaucer, so I hope it isn’t too inaccurate or weird to read.
> 
> As always, thank you all so much for reading, giving kudos, and commenting! It means the world to me :)


	8. Ice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grace and Regulus meet.

Grace was huddled in the far corner of the library with an entire shelf’s worth of books spread out in front of her. The titles ranged from the more serious _Divining Death and Doom_ to the utterly dull _Portents to Predict Weather_. All books, she had found, were not very useful. But she was desperate.

“Ooh,” Sophia said, buried deep into a copy of _Harbingers of Hate: Using Prophecy to Cut Off Bad Influences_. “This one says that if a crow is persistently following a friend of yours around, then the friend must be up to something wicked. _But_—if your friend is followed around by _two_ crows, then they’re alright.” She lifted her head up from the book thoughtfully. “Is it that the second crow cancels out the first crow’s bad energy, you think?”

Grace bit back a groan. “This is complete rubbish,” she sighed, setting aside her own book, _Steps for Successful Seeing_. “Half these books were written by people who don’t even possess the Sight.”

Ever since she had failed to pull Regulus aside, Grace had devoted herself to working on a new angle of her plan: tapping into her Inner Eye. This proved much more difficult than she initially thought, and, without Vablatsky there to guide her, she had turned to the library for help.

Except the library wasn’t much help, as it turned out.

Sophia’s gaze returned to her self-help book. “Divination is a popular industry. People love reading this stuff.”

“People love reading about _hacks_,” Grace corrected, snatching Sophia’s book out of her hands.

“Hey!” the young girl protested. “I was reading that!”

Grace squinted at the passage the Ravenclaw had been reading. “Are you _really_ going to decide who your friends are based on what sort of birds are following them around?”

“Maybe,” Sophia sniffed. She reached a hand out.

Grace reluctantly gave her the book back. “You don’t need a book to tell you how to judge a person’s character. I’m sure you can figure it out yourself.”

“Oh, I can. I’m waiting to get to the part that tells me _how_ to cut someone out of my life.”

Grace frowned. She had taken care of Moaning Myrtle weeks and weeks ago, thanks to the Bloody Baron. “Who’s bothering you now?”

“Preston, Green, and Golightly,” she ticked off. “They’re not as irritating as they used to be. Not since I hexed Preston with the modified Bat-Bogey spell you taught me. But now I think they think we’re _friends_ or something. Which we’re not.”

Grace snorted. “Well, if that book doesn’t tell you how to get rid of them, I think another round of that Bat-Bogey would do just fine.”

Sophia smiled at the idea before returning to her book. Unwillingly, Grace returned to her pile of books and pulled out another. This one was called _Five Effortless Steps to Foretelling the Future_, and she knew almost instantly this one would be another dud.

Despite her inclinations, she opened to the first page and began to skim through the section:

> _My journey into the unknown first began when I unknowingly switched cress for oleander in my nightly dreamless sleep potion. The resulting concoction forced open my Inner Eye, and allowed me to traverse through the future._

Grace immediately set down the book. Nearly all of these books relied on some sort of tool—either an implement to interpret one’s Inner Eye with, like a crystal ball or tarot cards, or some sort of potion or herbological treatment to induce visions. But this wasn’t what Grace wanted. The sort of Seeing she had read about—the ancient type of Seeing, the prophecies tied with true Sight, the medieval cases she had pored over—weren’t spurred on by anything in particular. One moment the Inner Eye was closed, the next it was open.

She had hoped the process simply required intense focus. And she had tried that; she had closed the hangings round her bed and sat in the shadows for what must have been hours, trying to grapple with that invisible boundary that separated now from later. She had used nearly every trick Vablatsky had taught her over the years—_still the waters of your mind, keep your thoughts calm and clear_—but nothing had come of it.

Grace shoved her books aside and stood up, grabbing her knapsack. “Come on,” she told Sophia absently. The day had only just begun, but she already felt knackered. “Care of Magical Creatures starts in a few.”

Sophia bounded up in an instant, shrugging on her coat as she followed Grace out of the library, through the maze of hallways, and into the Hogwarts courtyard.

“I just hope Kettleburn won’t have us actually _handle_ the animal this time,” Sophia chattered as they walked. “The bowtruckle he gave me last class nearly bit off my finger! I don’t think it was too chuffed about being taken out of its tree. I’d much rather we just observed them in their natural habitat instead of passing them round from student to student. It’s probably very disorienting for them, don’t you think?”

“Probably,” Grace agreed, and was secretly very relieved when they reached Kettleburn’s class. Usually, she was more than happy to be swept up in Sophia’s ramblings, but today she simply wanted to sulk.

Sophia frowned as she caught sight of three particularly troublesome Gryffindors. “Oh, great,” she muttered.

“Hello, Sophia,” one of them waved.

Sophia glared at him. “You’re not allowed to call me by my first name, Green.”

He startled. “Oh—er—sorry, Sophia.”

The Ravenclaw sighed. Grace pushed past the trio of Gryffindors, hoping today’s class would go by as quickly as possible. There was a terrible ache growing in her temples, and she wanted nothing more than to head back to the dormitory and curl up in bed.

“Potter,” one of them called out snootily as she stepped by. “I see you’re still swaggering about like you own the place.”

“Hello, Preston,” Grace acknowledged lazily while Sophia harrumphed at him. “Try not to be too much of a wanker today, will you?”

“Only if you promise not to be such a prat,” Preston said easily.

Grace merely shrugged in response before walking over to Kettleburn. The old man was holding onto a box that was rattling wildly.

Preston stared after her, shoulders slack, frowning. “What? No response?” He looked pointedly at Sophia and asked, “Oi, Hornby—she alright?”

“It’s been a long day.”

He stared at her. “It’s ten o’clock in the morning.”

* * *

Sometime after the Quidditch match, Greengrass suddenly became Ophelia. Grace wasn’t entirely sure when it had happened. She refused to entertain the possibility that she had begun it. She was almost certain that it was Ophelia who slipped up first and called Grace by her first name instead of her last, and, of course, Grace had to return the favor.

So, Greengrass was Ophelia now.

But the change in name did little to change the personality. The Slytherin Prefect was still as snarky and acerbic as ever.

“It’s like the practice is making you _worse_,” Ophelia snipped after the fifth time Grace failed to produce a corporeal Patronus.

Grace bristled. She pocketed her wand and collapsed onto one of the many chairs that littered the empty classroom.

“There’s no point,” she said, voice steely. “Only a handful of people have gotten it, and I’m just not going to be one of them.”

The majority of the class was still stuck on producing spirals of silver. It didn’t exactly help that Vance didn’t have anymore advice to give on the subject of Patronus charms, preferring to tell students to simply ‘hold the feeling in your head and practice and practice until you don’t need to hold the feeling any longer.’

What in Godric’s good name was the _feeling_ supposed to be? Here Grace was, practicing and practicing to capture something she had not felt in weeks, and—honestly—Ophelia wasn’t wrong. She _was_ getting worse. The strong coils of silver she once produced had now lessened to wisps of bleak grey light.

Ophelia settled down besides Grace. “Once you’ve got a good memory down, the rest is simple. Really. I’m loathe to give Vance any credit, but she’s right. It’s the practice.”

Ophelia gave her wand one delicate swish. From the tip burst an elegant, long-beaked crane. It dawdled around the room for a moment or two, shaking out its large, luminescent wings, snapping its thin beak open and shut, before dissipating into nothing.

“Quite showing off,” Grace muttered.

“I’m not,” Ophelia insisted. “I’m just showing you it can be done.”

It couldn’t be done, not for Grace. She felt too tired to even _think_ about being happy. She wished she could go back to the common room and collapse onto one of the plush emerald couches, but she was still due to finish an essay for Transfiguration.

Ophelia sighed. “What’s bothering you?”

Grace glanced up sharply. “Nothing.”

“Do you think I’m an idiot?”

“…No.”

Ophelia studied her for a moment, the muted green of her eyes tracing over Grace’s hunched form carefully. Finally, she said, “Did you ever end up talking to Black?”

Grace’s shoulders stiffened. “No.”

A bout of tense silence followed. Ophelia leaned away. Grace knew the taller girl didn’t like Regulus—or Yaxley and Rosier. Grace knew Ophelia knew more than she let on, and Grace absolutely didn’t want to find out exactly _how much_ she knew.

Grace rose and grabbed her bag. It was stuffed with a dozen new books from the library. “I’m going to go to the common room,” she said, rubbing at her eyes. “I think I’ll—”

“Has he joined?” Ophelia cut in, voice low, shadowed.

Ice flooded Grace’s veins. She didn’t meet Ophelia’s eyes. “Joined…?” she questioned, careful to keep her voice airy.

Ophelia was not amused. “You-Know-Who,” she pressed. “Has he joined You-Know-Who?”

“No,” Grace lied, because it wasn’t her secret to tell, because Ophelia shouldn’t be burdened with that knowledge, because—despite the fact she knew it was true, despite the fact she had seen that skull and snake on his forearm—she still couldn’t bring herself to say _yes_.

Ophelia gave her a jerky little nod and relaxed. “Right. Must be that Rosier and Yaxley are trying to recruit him, then. I know Rosier’s joined. I saw his Mark on the train back in September. He was showing it off.” She shook her head. “Idiot.”

Grace was very still. Her grip around the strap of her bag was so tight, her nails were digging into the flesh of her palm. She didn’t quite understand what was happening, only that she didn’t like it. It was trouble enough harboring the secret. If anything got out, if anyone else found out—it would be chaos.

“If you know,” Grace began very slowly, “why haven’t you told anyone?”

Ophelia’s brows rose. “Who would believe me? I don’t have any proof, and both of Rosier’s parents are on the Wizengamot. I think the more important question is that _you_ obviously know, so why haven’t you said anything?”

Grace’s lips thinned.

“Are you trying to stop him?” Ophelia continued. “Black, I mean.”

Could she stop what had already been done?

“I’m trying to save him,” Grace corrected. “But to do that, I need to at least talk to him.”

“Then talk to him.”

Grace gave Ophelia a withering glance. “Believe me, I’ve tried. But he seems to have gotten it into his head that if we communicate at all, it’ll just make whatever situation he’s in worse.”

“Corner him somewhere private.”

If only it were that simple. “I don’t know _how_. I can’t get him alone.”

He was always surrounded by Yaxley and Rosier. Merlin, it was like they were his security detail or something. And Grace _knew_ Regulus wouldn’t fall for another trick, not after what she did to get him into the Room the first time around.

“Then get him in a place that’s so crowded no one will notice if you whisk him away. Like—” Ophelia’s eyes widened, “—Slughorn’s Yuletide party! It’s in a few days, on the first of December. The whole room will be crawling with Ministry members and old students and current students. It’s the perfect place to pull him aside.”

“I don’t have an invite to Slughorn’s party, and I’m fairly certain he has wards up to prevent me from gatecrashing.”

“Well, he can’t stop you from being someone’s plus-one.”

“Whose plus-one?”

“Mine.”

Grace gnawed at her bottom lip. “I dunno… Even if I managed to corner him, I don’t think he’d want to talk to me.”

Actually getting Regulus alone was just half the battle. Having him amenable to hold a conversation was a different matter entirely. Grace wasn’t sure how to convince him to speak with her just yet.

“Are you kidding me?” Ophelia burst. “I think he’d give an arm and a leg just to talk to you again. Have you noticed the number of times he looks at you during meals? During classes? Merlin, it’s practically obscene.”

“I—the—what?”

“Sweet Circe, you’re both hopeless,” she sighed.

* * *

“Stop!” Grace yelped as she felt Ophelia tug through her dark, tangled hair with a brush. She twisted around and tried to snatch the hairbrush. “Stop—Merlin, agreeing to attend tonight’s blasted party with you was _not_ an invitation for you to hurt me.”

Ophelia deftly avoided Grace’s reach. She turned Grace’s head back around, towards the mirror, and raised the brush once more. “I’ve _barely_ touched your hair. Salazar’s serpent—is this really how you live your life? I don’t think a comb has ever touched your head.”

Grace grumbled quietly to herself as Ophelia forced the brush into her hair. She stared gloomily at her wan reflection. Her eyes were rung with circles from sleepless nights, and her lips were splotchy and swollen from the constant nervous gnawing. The locks of hair Ophelia was brushing through simply grew frizzier and more unkempt.

This was a hopeless attempt.

“I don’t need to look nice,” Grace said scathingly, as though the very thought were unconscionable. “I just need to be there.”

“You don’t think it would look suspicious if everyone else is dressed to the nines and you look like you just rolled out of bed?” Greengrass tossed her brush, giving up. “Forget it, we’ll just tie your hair up into something vaguely resembling a knot.”

Ophelia swung her wand over Grace’s head, and the hair began to rise of its own accord, twisting and knotting and settling into intricate patterns. Within a matter of seconds, Grace’s unruly, thick hair had been neatly done up into an elegant twist.

“Huh,” Grace said, patting at her hair. “Doesn’t look half-bad.”

“That’s _all_ you’ve got to say?” Ophelia demanded. “That’s practically a miracle I just performed.”

Grace shrugged and swirled away from the mirror, facing Ophelia fully. The auburn-haired girl had gotten ready hours ago. Her own hair was done up in a similar style, with loose strands framing her thin face. She was wearing a new dress from her mother’s clothing line: a complicated mesh of glimmering emerald green silk and string.

“How did you even get that _on_?” Grace wondered, marveling at the delicate array of loops and bows that strung up the back of the dress.

“It’s self-tying. My mother wouldn’t put a dress as ambitious as this in her collection without that sort of charm, obviously.”

Grace rolled her eyes. “Obviously.”

Ophelia rummaged through her trunk for a moment before pulling out a powder box and handing it over to Grace. “Here. Dab that on your face while I try to find a dress you won’t ruin by the end of the night.”

“What’s wrong with my dresses?”

“You don’t have a dress.”

“I have a perfectly good set of robes.” Grace gestured at her standard black robes. She’d laid our a fresh set on her bed this very morning.

“You are _not_ wearing that tonight. Do you know how many Ministry members Slughorn has invited?”

“I don’t care about Ministry—”

“But _I_ do, and you’re _my_ plus-one. I won’t have you come dressed sloppily. It’ll reflect badly on me.” Ophelia was throwing dress after dress from her trunk. A shimmering mound of fabric was growing steadily on her bed. “Now put that powder on.”

Grace sighed and twisted off the cap. “What’s this supposed to do?”

“It’s glamour powder.”

“I don’t need _glamour_—”

“You _do_. You look like you haven’t had a good night’s rest in years.” Ophelia looked up from her trunk. “I’ve got dreamless sleep potions, if you—”

“I’m fine,” Grace said flatly, and wheeled back to the mirror.

She patted the powder puff onto her face. With each press, the sallow tinge to her skin disappeared. The contours of her face shimmered under the hazy light of the dormitory. The bags under her eyes faded completely. She seemed brighter, livelier.

She didn’t look like how she felt.

“Ah, this one’s old,” Ophelia said, fishing out a dress from the very bottom of her trunk and dusting it out.

It was long and made of golden velvet, with an off-shoulder neckline. Grace thought she would look absolutely ridiculous, but she comforted herself with the thought that she wouldn’t be at the Slug Club party for very long. She grabbed the dress from Ophelia and, in a matter of minutes, had slipped it on.

At least it was soft and comfortable.

She took another glance at the mirror, and found that she looked quite nice. If Mum were here, she’d probably say Grace looked _darling_. And it might have been true: Grace looked tall and elegant and lovely—but she also looked stiff and smothered and wooden.

Grace reached around to the back of her head and slowly undid the intricate tangle of locks that kept her hair up. It fell down quickly, in thick waves, curling against her face and her collarbone, framing her in glorious disarray. She slipped her wand behind her ear.

“_Why_?” Ophelia said, aghast. “_Why_ would—”

“I look good enough,” Grace said firmly, already making a quick dash for the door. “Come on, we’d better get going before we’re late.”

Grace fled from the dormitory. Ophelia followed behind, sulking quietly as the two made their way over to Slughorn’s office. As the duo wound closer and closer to their destination, Grace found herself feeling less and less sure. It was a short walk since they were already in the dungeons, but each step felt like it took a year. What if Regulus didn’t show? What if she couldn’t get him to listen? What if he didn’t agree with her plan?

There were so many things that could go wrong. So many things had _already_ gone wrong.

Grace stopped just a few steps short of the party. Her stomach rolled with unease. On the other side of the door, she could make out the soft thrum of a violin, the quiet chatter of Ministry officials and Hogwart’s most prized students.

“Hey,” Ophelia said, coming up besides her, “it’s just a party.”

But it wasn’t.

“Yeah,” Grace muttered. And because she didn’t want to seem silly, suddenly added, “I’m just not jazzed about seeing Slughorn. Part of me wonders if he’ll stop me from entering.”

“I’ll handle him,” Ophelia promised. She swung open the door, and tugged Grace inside.

Slughorn’s office seemed to have expanded in size to accommodate the absurd number of guests he had invited. The large room was congested with circles of people, long tables with various hors d’oeuvres, enchanted evergreen trees, ice statues, and much more. Wreaths of holly and pale blue streamers spanned the ceiling. In the far back, a small and utterly dull band of classical musicians were strumming their stringed instruments.

“Oh, ho, Miss Greengrass,” Slughorn chortled merrily, strolling up to the well-dressed Prefect. “Glad you could come make. And who did—” The smile dropped from his face the instant he caught sight of Grace brooding besides Ophelia. “Ah, Miss Potter…”

“I brought along Grace as a thank you, sir,” Ophelia explained. “She’s been helping with Ancient Runes, you see.”

Slughorn stared at Ophelia with unabashed confusion. “Runes?” he repeated. “But she’s not in—”

“Oh, she’s not, but she knows how to read them. Self-taught. It’s rather impressive.”

Slughorn’s gaze traveled back to Grace. “I see,” he hummed thoughtfully. He stepped aside, and gestured to the rest of the room. “Well, I won’t keep you from enjoying the festivities, Miss Greengrass. And, Miss Potter…perhaps I’ll reach out to Professor Vector on your behalf? See if we can’t make use of that talent of yours—”

“Er, no thanks,” Grace said speedily, already dashing away. “I’ve got too much on my plate as it is.” She disappeared into the cluster of guests alongside Ophelia. “If he gives me an invite to his next Slug Club, I’m going to blame you.”

Ophelia rolled her eyes. “I wouldn’t worry about that. I’m sure you’ll do something to anger him before he gets the chance.” The taller girl perked up. “Oh, look, they’ve got Battenburg cakes. Delightful.”

Ophelia scurried towards the arrangement of finger foods, and Grace followed behind sullenly. Her eyes roved over the crowd of passersby, but she couldn’t spot Regulus’s mop of neat dark hair.

“Hullo, Greengrass,” a familiar voice greeted.

Grace’s head snapped up and her brows furrowed as she caught sight of Dirk. He had cleaned up for tonight, too. His normally bedraggled hair was slicked back and parted, and he’d traded in his usual stained robes for something crisp, clean, and well-fitting. In his left hand was a swirling goblet of dark wine.

“Dirk?”

“Grace,” Dirk acknowledged. His eyes flitted over her golden dress. “You look like a big Galleon.”

She frowned tightly. “You look like a knobhead. What are you doing here?”

He reached over for a cucumber sandwich and stuffed the whole thing into his mouth. “I was invited, of course.” He chewed noisily and swallowed down the sandwich with a gulp of wine. “I only came so Slughorn could introduce me to the head of the Goblin Liaison Office. Sort of glad you two are here now, though. It was getting boring.”

Grace glanced between Dirk and Ophelia. “You two know each other?”

“Of course I know Cresswell,” Ophelia said loftily. She had finished her cake and was now delicately dabbing at her lips with a handkerchief. Grace felt like she had suddenly been transported into an alternate universe. “He’s one of the few bearable people in Slug Club.”

“Bearable?” Grace repeated. “_Dirk_ is _bearable_? I—you know what? I’m not even going to ask.” She pointed at the glass in Dirk’s hand. “Where’d you get that from?”

“There are a bunch of bottles near the back.” He jerked a thumb back to where the musicians were playing.

Grace took her wand out. “Accio wine bottle,” she said, and a bottle of Ogden’s finest flew into her open hand.

“Pour me some, too,” Ophelia said, conjuring some glasses.

They divided the wine between themselves, and promptly stood back to survey the guests. Grace didn’t recognize most of them, but Dirk and Ophelia seemed to know a few from previous Slug Club meetings.

“Oh, look, it’s that bugger again.” Dirk pointed at a weedy, balding man in the corner. “Wouldn’t stop talking to me about his begonias last time he was here. Sounded like he wanted to marry them or something.”

“He’s a horticulturist,” Ophelia said. “Of course he wouldn’t stop talking about his flowers.”

“Horticulturist? Really? God—Slughorn has the dullest guests.”

Grace tuned out their conversation as she scanned through the droves of people. She spotted a couple of professors weave through the crowd, someone she was fairly certain was the current Undersecretary to the Minister of Magic, and quite a few Aurors—but no Regulus.

Grace finished off her goblet of wine and set it aside. “I don’t think he’s coming,” she told Ophelia lowly. Part of her wasn’t surprised. If she were in his shoes, she didn’t think she’d come down to a party, either.

Dirk leaned towards them. “Who are we talking about?”

“Black,” Ophelia said.

“Ah.” Dirk’s eyes swept around the room. “Yeah—might not show. Haven’t seen him around the past few Slug Club meetings.”

Grace’s shoulders slumped. “I knew something would go wrong. I shouldn’t have come.”

She made to move, but Ophelia stopped her. “You’re not leaving.”

Grace raised a brow. “I’m not?” she said flatly.

“No. Even if Black doesn’t come, you should still stay. You need to—” she floundered for a moment.

“Relax,” Dirk supplied.

Ophelia gave a curt nod. “Exactly. Relax. Decompress. You’ve been holed up in the dormitory reading books and translating runes every single night. You hardly chat during class or meals since you’ve got your face buried in some ancient tome half the time. And—”

“And you’re a right bore in Potions,” Dirk interjected. “You haven’t made a proper joke since Halloween.”

Grace’s jaw clenched. “Do you expect me to just throw everything away and gallivant around the castle like some fool while the world turns to shit? Do you think I should—”

“_Don’t_ twist my words,” Ophelia said warningly. She held Grace’s eyes for a moment before softening and adding, “I don’t know precisely what it is you’re trying to accomplish, Grace, but I don’t think you’ll ever finish whatever it is you intend to do unless you take care of yourself, too.”

Grace looked between Ophelia and Dirk, both wary and sincere, and swallowed thickly. How could she just sit here and while away the time? Time her parents did not have? Time Regulus was running out of? How could she waste something so precious? It felt wrong.

Dirk straightened. “I’ve got an idea,” he said suddenly, and sped off to the musicians clustered in the back. 

“I can’t just sit here and do nothing,” Grace said helplessly. “I can’t just not…” _Read and work and plan and on and on. _

“The world won’t burn if you spare a moment to enjoy yourself,” Ophelia said.

The soft strum of the violin faded out before picking up, faster than before. Music swelled from the back of the party, and slowly overcame the room. The tempo was quick, vivacious, and swept up the room in a flurry. Whoops and cheers traveled through the crowd.

“Something tells me you’re going to miserable no matter what. If that’s how it’s going to be, fine.” Ophelia said. She held out a hand. “But at least be miserable here.”

It was hard to resist that logic. Grace took the hand, and Ophelia spun her around, to the beat of the music, through the crowd. The two of them circled through the room, Ophelia leading, Grace whirling and whirling—dress flaring out, hair whipping around. And although both her feet were planted solidly on the floor, Grace felt very much like she was flying. She treasured that feeling—the easy throw of her body as she spun, the fractured light of the chandelier as it lit her, the lively thrum of music as it wormed its way into her bones. A bubble of lighthearted laughter escaped her.

“See?” Ophelia said, smiling triumphantly. Under the sweeping light, her hair shone like copper. “A little joy never killed anybody.”

Grace returned the smile. “I wish I’d been friends with you sooner. Right from the start, actually. I wish I’d talked to you more in first year.”

“I don’t think you’d have been able to handle me back then,” she said honestly, and spun Grace out again, right into a returning Dirk.

“Oi—you lot started dancing without me?” Dirk demanded.

Grace snorted and took him into her arms, spinning him around just as Ophelia had done for her. His dress robes flapped about him ridiculously. Another peal of laughter tore from her mouth.

The trio twirled and twisted through the party, and—step by step, inch by inch—Grace found her unease slipping away. The spirited beat of the music was joined by bursts of laughter and her friend’s chatter. The night seemed brighter somehow, seemed young and endless.

It wasn’t until the three of them took a break and headed back over to the tables for a drink that Grace was reminded of the reason she had come down to Slughorn’s party in the first place.

“Black at three o’clock,” Dirk murmured as he passed Ophelia and Grace each a fresh glass.

Grace looked to her side, and, sure enough, Regulus was slipping through circles of Ministry officials. He was wearing one of his old dress robes: dark with silver lining. His hair was settled into soft, barely brushed curls. Strolling along beside him was Rosier, dressed similarly—but with a cunning smile to boot.

“That’s surprising,” Ophelia hummed quietly.

“I can’t talk to him here,” Grace said immediately, frowning. Music blared all around them. “It’s too loud.”

“Don’t worry about that,” Dirk said. “I can fix that.”

Grace’s brows creased. “What do you mean—?”

He was already walking away, goblet of wine tight in hand. Just as he approached Rosier and Regulus, he tripped—seemingly over air—and tumbled into Regulus, spilling his drink all over the taller boy.

“Ah, whoops—” Dirk began, only to be swiftly cut off by a furious Rosier.

Rosier lifted Dirk up by the collar and pressed his wand into the Hufflepuff’s neck. “How dare you, you filth—”

Regulus, dripping with wine, rose and tore Rosier away from Dirk in an instant. He swept Rosier towards the door. Dirk stared after them for a moment before shaking his head and padding back towards Grace and Ophelia.

“Now’s your chance,” he told Grace. “He’s likely heading to the bathroom to wash up. You can corner him when he comes out.”

Grace grabbed him by the shoulders. “Dirk—_thank you_,” she said earnestly. She caught sight of a passing girl with honey-blonde hair and an idea suddenly struck her. “Oh, and I apologize in advance for this, but it’s for your own good.”

“What’s for my—?”

Grace pushed him into Abbott. Dirk yelped as he went down, but he landed safely in the young woman’s arms.

“Cresswell?” Abbott said in surprise as the gangly Hufflepuff clung onto her.

“Abbott,” he squeaked, cheeks colored bright red. “Er—how are you?”

Grace grabbed Ophelia and left the blushing duo of Hufflepuffs. They made their way towards the edge of Slughorn’s party, and peeked their heads out the door. The boy’s bathroom was just down the hall.

“Do you know if he took Rosier with him?” Grace asked.

“He did.”

Grace frowned. “Bollocks. Rosier will be suspicious if I approach them.”

“I can take care of Rosier,” Ophelia promised, stepping away from the party.

“Er—you can…?” Grace said hesitantly, following.

The cool dark of the hallway engulfed them. The light from the party grew dimmer and dimmer until it was completely eclipsed by protruding walls and stone pillars. Further down, Grace could make out two voices arguing.

“Over here,” Ophelia whispered, slinking behind a column just a few feet away from the bathroom.

Grace slipped in besides her, flattening herself against the wall. She took her wand out once more and quietly cast a disillusionment charm over herself and Ophelia. They immediately blended into the background. Grace strained her ears to hear the conversation echoing from the bathroom.

“—cursed him, you would have had five Aurors on you in an instant!” Regulus said, voice hard and thoroughly irritated.

“Shove off,” Rosier said. “None of it would have even happened if you’d been paying attention to where you were stepping instead of gawking at Potter—”

“I don’t _gawk_—” Regulus began severely.

“Oh, save the theatrics for Yaxley. I don’t mind so long as it’s just looking you’re doing. I can’t blame you, either. She cuts a nice figure. Shame she’s—where are you going?”

“Back to the dormitory. This is a waste of time,” Regulus said as he emerged from the threshold of the bathroom.

Rosier caught up to him quickly. “We’ve got a job to do—”

He stopped walking and wheeled around, eyes blazing. “Do you _honestly_ think any of the Aurors in there are going to let anything slip to a couple of seventh-years?”

“They might if they’ve got enough Firewhiskey in their system,” Rosier said obstinately.

“That’s not going to happen. Slughorn never has enough alcohol at these events for anyone to get fully drunk. Face it, this is a pointless task.”

“Doesn’t matter. We’re still meant to do it.”

Ophelia ducked closer to Grace and whispered in her ear, “I’m going in.”

She swiftly removed Grace’s disillusionment charm from herself and stepped out from behind the pillar, making her way to Rosier and Regulus under the cover of the shadows. Her heels clacked loudly against the stone floor. Regulus’s mouth snapped shut. Rosier turned around wildly.

“Who’s—” Rosier began.

Regulus shushed him.

“There you are,” Ophelia drawled as she entered their line of sight. “Slughorn was concerned when he saw you two run out, and wanted me to check that everything was fine.” She raised a brow as she caught sight of Regulus’s sopping robes. “Everything _is_ fine, isn’t it?”

“It is,” Regulus snapped, pushing past Rosier and heading down another corridor that lead to the Slytherin common room.

“_Black_,” Rosier started with heavy exasperation. “Hold on—”

“Oh, leave him,” Ophelia said, and wound an arm around Rosier’s before he could dash off after Regulus. “More fun for us.”

Rosier froze and turned to Ophelia with new eyes. “Er—alright…?”

Grace waited with bated breath as Ophelia led Rosier back towards Slughorn’s office. As soon as she sure they were out of sight, she recanted her disillusionment charm and slunk out of her hiding spot. She hurtled down the same corridor Regulus had disappeared into.

She didn’t catch a hold of him until she rounded on the entrance to the common room. The fall of her shoes amongst the quiet of the dungeons caught his attention, and Regulus came to a halt.

“Rosier, I _told_ you—” he began irately as he turned around, but stopped once he caught sight of her. His eyes were glued to her frame. “Grace?”

“Hullo,” she said rather lamely. “I need to talk to you.”

His spine grew rigid. “Grace, I—”

“I know what you’re going to say. But let me just tell you this: if we don’t talk now, I’m just going to do more and more stupid and reckless things to try to talk to you. Might as well save us both the trouble and stop beating around the bush.”

She held his gaze defiantly. After a moment of silence, Regulus’s shoulders slackened in defeat.

“Alright,” he agreed. “But not here. We’ll go to the Room.”

He gestured back the way they came, and Grace took the first few steps forward, acutely aware of his presence behind her. She wanted to say something—she wanted to say _everything_—but found she couldn’t figure out how. Her tongue felt heavy and clumsy.

The gold of her dress draped over the steps as they climbed up and up to the seventh floor. It was late enough that there weren’t any stragglers about. The torches that dotted the far walls did little to combat the dark. Under the shadows, Grace felt tense and stilted and awkward. She wanted the night to flow like wine. She wanted to breathe slow and easy.

She decided to break the silence.

“How come Yaxley wasn’t with you?” It wasn’t a subject she was particularly interested in, but she thought it might be best to start off easy. “I only saw you and Rosier.”

Regulus didn’t answer immediately. His shoes shuffled against the stone floor. It wasn’t until they reached the final set of spiral stairs that he sighed and said, “Yaxley’s father was outed as a Death Eater months ago. Slughorn wouldn’t have allowed us to bring him along.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.” He paused and glanced at her unsurely. “I didn’t know you were coming tonight. Did—er—Cresswell invite you?”

There was an undercurrent of something there. Grace refused to get caught up in it. “No,” she said. “It was Ophelia.”

“Greengrass?” He seemed surprised. “She’s hardly the friendly sort.”

Grace shrugged. “Said I needed to get out of the dormitory.”

Regulus didn’t say anything, but he didn’t have to. They’d reached their destination: the blank expanse of wall that housed the most intricate magic either of them had ever witnessed. Grace took a deep breath and passed by it three times. _Give us a place to talk_, she thought earnestly. _Give us a place where no one will disturb us. Give us a chance._

The door appeared—large and wooden, with a golden knob. Grace pulled on it and entered a small room with a flickering hearth and plush armchairs. Green tapestries hung down from the walls. There was a cluttered cabinet with various bric-a-brac pushed to the side.

It was a common room just for two.

Grace took one of the armchairs, settling down just on the edge of the seat. Regulus took the one opposite her, and nervously drummed his fingers across his thighs.

“Well?” he asked.

The warm glow of the fireplace washed over him, softening the sharp contours of his face. The grey of his eyes flickered over her. His dress robes had long dried, but there was a large purple stain right across the center.

Her heart was full of memories and words. She didn’t know how to begin, just that she needed to. Just that there was this fluttering in her belly. Just that there was a world of pain that she needed to unravel. She took a deep breath.

“My parents have Dragon Pox,” she burst, and immediately regretted it. Because that wasn’t what she’d meant to say. Because she didn’t want to have this be about her again.

But that was how it all began.

“Oh, Grace…” Regulus said, and his voice was so damned soft, so choked with warmth and empathy, that Grace found herself unable to continue for a moment.

She dropped her gaze from his. She had been hiding her frustration and her anxiety and her loneliness deep inside her. There wasn’t any time to comb through the complex tangle of emotions buried in her heart; there wasn’t any time to cry and collapse and wish things were different—because what was the point in doing any of that? But somehow, hearing him say her name like that—with such infinite tenderness—made her wish anyway. She burned for things to have gone differently.

She shook her head. “It’s okay—I mean, it’s not. But it’s okay as it can be. Besides, it’s not the Pox I wanted to talk to you about. It’s that—when I was sitting with James at St. Mungo’s…I realized something. I realized that—that—the world is just _shit_, Regulus. It really, really is. Everything is on the verge of collapse. Mum and Dad are stuck in the ward, counting down the days. James is off fighting against You-Know-Who, putting his life on the line every other hour. And I just—I just couldn’t stop thinking…” She lifted her head up and met Regulus’s somber gaze. “If everything does collapse, I can’t lose you, too.”

She took a pause, let the words sink in. She was glad Regulus didn’t say anything, didn’t interrupt. He knew there was more.

“I’m sorry,” she said. It came out as a whisper. “What you told me and showed me last time…it hurt me, but I didn’t think it would have hurt you, too. I was too wrapped up in myself at the time. I didn’t listen to you before, and you needed someone to listen to you. I’m sorry for that.”

“It’s okay,” he said gently. “I would have done the same if the roles were reversed.”

It was the most beautiful lie he had ever told her. Grace knew full well he would not have done the same. It was in Regulus’s nature to listen, to sit still and think on a problem for hours and hours before attempting to solve it. 

“Will you tell me what happened?” she asked.

“It doesn’t exactly paint me in the best light.” He ran a hand through his hair, and leaned forward. “And—and... You don’t need to hear it, of course, not if you don’t want to. And I understand why you wouldn’t want to.”

She shook her head, and held his gaze in her own. “Tell me,” she commanded softly. “Tell me everything.”

He let out a breath. “It’s always been like this with my family. You know that. The whole blood purity thing—for centuries and centuries it’s been like this. It’s in our family motto. It’s in our ancestry. And it’s so hard to escape it. When your whole life’s screaming this at you, how could you possibly ignore it?” He swallowed thickly. “I know what people would say to that, though. I know what Sirius would say. That people have left, so why can’t I? Uncle Alphard rebelled in his own way. Andromeda eloped. Sirius ran away. So, why couldn’t I?”

She knew the answer to that question. It was an easy one: loyalty. _Because you’re you_, she wanted to say. _Because you’re so loyal, too loyal. How could you even bear the thought of leaving the family that raised you, terrible as they may be?_

He shrugged half-heartedly. “I don’t really know the answer to that. I suppose…in my head, I figured it would be too much of a betrayal. I know Mother isn’t…always right, but she loves us, in her own way. When Sirius left, it broke her a little. How could I leave, too?” He took a deep breath and continued, “So, I stayed. I stayed because I couldn’t leave, and because I was too afraid to leave. And things have never been great in our house, but it only got worse when Sirius left. Mother has always been obsessed with image: the Black family, a bastion of purity. She craved respect and power and admiration. And then her eldest son, her heir, ran away.” He smiled humorlessly. “You can only imagine how well she took that.”

“I’m sorry.”

He shook his head. “You’ve nothing to apologize for.”

She didn’t believe that in the slightest. “I tried, Regulus,” she said quietly. “I tried so hard to convince Sirius to come back, to get him to think of you and what all he’d left behind. But he seemed convinced that if you really wanted him back, you’d leave yourself. He seemed convinced that you’d choose him.”

Regulus closed his eyes briefly, pressing the hilt of his palms against his lids. “He always liked to make everything about him.”

“James told me he regrets it, now and again.”

He eyes snapped open. “What use is that?” His gaze flitted away from her own. “What use is that?” he said again, this time quieter.

They sat in this silence for a little while, the silence that swayed between them like the gentle rolls of the sea. Between them, a hundred million unsaid things began to unfurl. Grace thought of how she railed and railed against Sirius, her face red, her hands balled into fists, tears streaming down her cheeks despite herself. _Traitor_, she had screamed. _You left him. Traitor!_

But she had abandoned Regulus, too, so wasn’t she, in some small way, the same?

“What next?” she asked, disrupting the quiet.

“Father died,” he sighed. “The head of the family was gone, the wayward heir had run off. People—and by people, I mean other pure-blood families—were turning their noses up at us, gossiping about us. Mother wanted to do anything and everything possible to get us back into good standing. And then, of course, Bellatrix came along.”

Grace had never met or seen Regulus’s oldest cousin. She had hardly heard of the woman. Anything she knew about Bellatrix Lestrange came from Andromeda. She knew that Bellatrix was like bramble—tough to the end, a rough, prickly thing. She knew that Andromeda was a little afraid of Bellatrix, a little unsure as to what end her older sister was willing to go.

“And she was telling us about this society she had joined. It had been going on for some years now, and only the most _worthy_—” his lips curled as he spat the word out, “—were in the know about it. She told us the names of a few others—Rosier, Malfoy…respected families, families my mother approved of, families my mother wanted approval from.” He deflated, shoulders slumping. “It was only supposed to be once. I only went to appease Mother, to say, ‘Look, I went. Is that enough? Are we done now?’ But when I went, _he_ was there.”

“You-Know-Who?”

He nodded sullenly. “I didn’t really know who he was at first. He was…silent. He didn’t talk much, just asked the others to do the talking—updates and whatnot. And as the others talked, as they told him about what they were up to…I realized what this _really_ was. And I realized who _he_ was. And I realized what it was Bellatrix was really a part of.” His voice retreated back into himself, and he took a moment, considering his next words. “It was only supposed to be once,” he said again, voice cracked and faint, grief-stricken.

Her bones ached something awful. She wanted to take Regulus and knit him into her heart. She wanted to reverse time to last year, stop him from going with Bellatrix. She wanted to go back to the summer of fourth year, and take Regulus along with Sirius back to the Potter cottage.

“I didn’t have to take the Mark, not immediately,” he continued. “But I couldn’t stop attending the meetings. Bellatrix was adamant about that. She said if I didn’t show, they’d assume I was a traitor. They’d assume I passed along what I’d heard to the Ministry or to Dumbledore or _something_. And it didn’t help that Mother _still_ didn’t realize what this was. It wasn’t some stupid society. It wasn’t just a few pure-blood families gathered in the parlor. It was a group of _killers_. Every other week, I was sat in a room with a bunch of murderers and torturers, and every time, I kept wondering…at what point will they stop me from listening and start me on doing?”

It was taking every ounce of her willpower not to stop him right there. Her stomach was twisting and turning. Her lungs felt tight and empty. _Please not that_, she thought desperately. _Please tell me you didn’t_.

“The longer I was there, the more my chance to leave disappeared. Until, one day, Bellatrix told me I’d have to take the Mark and do my part, or I’d be killed. Because, if I didn’t do as told, that’d make me a blood traitor. And there was no room in their new world for blood traitors.” He bent forward once more. “And there was a threat against Mother, too. I knew Sirius was already in danger, on account of him having run away. Andromeda, too. I figured, if anything—if I was on the inside—then maybe I could protect them all, for a little while, long enough that they might have a chance to get out of the country or something.”

“Andromeda has gone into hiding,” she assured him. It had been a year and a half ago, just as Bellatrix Lestrange began to make headlines. Grace had received a hastily written letter from Ted and a plea to take care of herself. “Sirius is…”

“You don’t have to explain about him. I know he’s fighting against us.” Regulus rubbed his hand over his face. “I don’t think I’ll ever run into him, thankfully. They don’t trust us—Rosier, Yaxley, and me—to do anything serious yet, not like what the _Prophet_ headlines, not like what Bellatrix does.”

Grace’s lips dipped into a slight frown. “What about the Hogsmeade Horror?”

“Yaxley’s idea.” There was a sharp edge to Regulus’s tone. “I thought there was a better way to go about it, but he was adamant and I didn’t want to him to harbor any more suspicion against me. We were supposed to just…spread some panic once we were back at Hogwarts, put some doubt in people’s minds about Dumbledore’s ability to protect students.” He glanced at Grace. “It’s a very big thing on the Dark—I mean, You-Know-Who’s mind. He’s almost…afraid of Dumbledore, I’d say. Like maybe Dumbledore would do to him what he’d done to Grindelwald.”

Grace digested his words. “Right… I—I think I understand.”

“I know I had chances to leave. I know I did. I just—” he grappled with himself for a moment, “—didn’t notice any of them until it was too late.”

“You’re not out of chances,” Grace told him. “I’m still here. I want to help you. I want to get you out of this.”

He shook his head. “It’s not possible. Wilkes tried to leave during the summer. He was dead before he hit the floor.”

“We’re different.”

Regulus’s brows rose. “We?”

And despite the thundering in her heart, the fact that everything in her lineage rebelled against the very idea, she took a deep breath and said, “I want to join.”

He rose from the armchair like a whip. The grey of his eyes was sharper than ice. “No. Absolutely not.”

He strode to the door. Grace leapt from her seat and intercepted her path, stopping him.

“Just—hear me out on this—”

“We’re not discussing this. “

“No—wait! I’ve got a plan. You can’t get out of this by telling You-Know-Who to just stuff it and leave. We both know that. But you can get out a different way. You can weaken his power from the inside—”

“What you’re suggesting will get me _killed_, Grace!”

“But I’ll be helping you!”

“You’ll get yourself killed, too!”

“I haven’t told you the whole plan yet. Dumbledore’s got this Order, you see—”

He froze. “How do you know about that?”

“James let it slip. And I’ve been doing my own research for weeks and weeks now. Dumbledore tried to assemble a group against Grindelwald, too. I reckon he’s actually succeeded this time for You-Know-Who. I think we can use that to our advantage—”

“We’re not using anything to our advantage,” Regulus said sharply. “There’s no point in entertaining this—”

“If you’d just set aside your reservations and _listen_, you’d know this is a good plan,” Grace insisted. “I’ve considered everything—”

“It’s absolutely not a good plan. You can’t—you can’t just waltz in and join the Death Eaters. You _can’t_—”

“Not without you, I can’t—”

“I won’t help you with that—”

“But you’ve got to, because it’s the only way I can help _you_—”

“You don’t have to help me!”

“Of course I have to, you prat! Mum and Dad have got Dragon Pox, and James is risking his life every day for the Auror Office, and—and _you_—” Grace’s throat felt like it was collapsing inward. “You heard what I said, Regulus. You heard me: I can’t lose you, too.”

Several things flitted through him all at once: surprise and sorrow and chagrin. “Grace,” he said, “I can’t lose you, either. You don’t know what he’s capable of. I won’t run the risk of you being found out.”

“I won’t be, not if I’m careful about it. I have a—”

“Plan,” he completed. “I know… But you don’t know what you’re signing up for. I can’t let you do this, not for me.” 

He tried to reach around her, but Grace grabbed his arm and stopped him again.

“_Listen_ to me,” she said—pleaded, more like. “I need you to listen to me.”

Regulus looked at her like he was seeing her for the first time. “I always listen to you. You know I do.”

She did know that. Regulus, with his patient smile and his still fingers and his open ears, always listened to her. Even when she hardly knew what she was saying herself, he did. But that wasn’t the case here. He was listening to her, but it was just the surface he was catching hold of. There was so much more happening than couldn’t be contained in words. Grace could feel it thumping in her chest, this tremendous epiphany, this overwhelming revelation.

It was more than Regulus having made a terrible mistake. It was more than Grace having turned him away when he needed her most. It was more than the Death Eaters and the Aurors and You-Know-Who.

“Listen to me,” she repeated, and her hands skimmed up his arms until she had his face cradled in her palms.

She brought herself up to him and pressed her lips tightly against his. In that one warm, desperate kiss, Grace tried to convey everything she had been hiding in her heart. _Can you hear it?_ she wanted to ask. _You listen to words, Regulus, but this is bigger than any word I know. Tell me you hear it. _

It was the movement of his lips against hers and the wild ramming of her heart against its cage and the curl of her fingers into his feathery hair and the way Regulus stumbled forward and the way Grace caught him in her arms.

After one long, trembling moment, Regulus pulled away. His fingers swept through her hair. His eyes were both cool and warm—as striking as the sky before a storm and as soft as spun honey.

“Do you understand?” she asked.

“I’ve always understood you,” he said.

“Then you know what I’m going to do.”

“Please,” he begged, “you can’t—”

“I _can_.”

“You shouldn’t.”

It made her heart ache, how it almost seemed like they were discussing a risky prank instead of espionage. “You know I’m going to do this,” she told him lowly. “The only question now is whether or not you’ll help me.”

His eyes flickered to a close. He breathed deeply, and Grace knew there was a war in his head, too. There was his love for his family, whatever was left of it, and his love for her. There was the pull of loyalty, stretching him in two entirely opposite directions. There was that softness within him, trying so hard to survive the battering of cruelty coming its way.

“Of course I’ll help you,” he croaked out. “I’ll always help you. You won’t be alone. Not like I—” he took a deep breath. “You won’t be alone.”

He took her hands in his and led her back towards the armchairs. Grace collapsed into the plush cushioning. Regulus settled down opposite her.

“Explain it to me,” he said. “I know you wouldn’t have come to me without a full-fledged plan.”

She smiled weakly. “Essentially, we become spies for Dumbledore’s Order. I don’t figure they have any spies, because then the war effort wouldn’t be going as badly as it is. I overheard a conversation between the Minister and Dumbledore, and it seemed Vance might be a part of the Order, too—”

“She definitely is,” Regulus said wearily. “We were warned about it before we came to Hogwarts.”

Grace nodded. “Right. So that means the Order has ties to the Auror Office and the Ministry at large. They’re trying to gain the upper hand on You-Know-Who, but things aren’t going their way. We can’t go directly to the Auror Office, because they’d never believe we’d just defect like that, so spying for the Order is our best shot. And if we were to spy on their behalf, it’d turn the tide. They could actually take down You-Know-Who, and we wouldn’t be traitors because we were never _really_ Death Eaters. We’d be heroes.”

“And what if we’re found out?”

“Then we book it, fake our deaths, and have the Order hide us somewhere.”

Regulus frowned. No doubt he didn’t think it would be as simple as that, but they could come up with a more elaborate back-up plan later.

“And what if the Order and the Ministry don’t manage to defeat You-Know-Who? What if he wins?”

“Then we’re Death Eaters, and we’re safe—until we can get out of the country or something.”

Regulus nodded slowly. “Okay, fine. Suppose it all works. Suppose You-Know-Who doesn’t suspect. Suppose we get all the right information we need. Suppose the Order and the Ministry wins. Why do _you_ need to be a Death Eater, too, Grace? If it’s spying that can get me out, then I can do that on my own.”

“You need my nerve,” she said easily. “That, and you need James.”

“James?”

“James and Lily are members of the Order. I don’t think they’d vouch for you to enter as a spy. Let’s face it—they don’t know you that well, and Sirius has more than colored their opinion of you.”

“But he’ll vouch for you,” Regulus said in understanding.

“Yes. Once I’m accepted as a spy, I can vouch for you. That’s why I need to be a Death Eater.”

“Alright, fine. But you don’t know how difficult that’ll be, given your family history. You-Know-Who will be suspicious right off the bat.”

“That’s sort of where you come into play, Regulus. You’ll have to convince him and the other Death Eaters that I’m different from my family.”

He shook his head. “I can only say so much. I don’t think they’d buy it, not when you’re so close to James and your parents.”

“I’ll convince them we’re not close.”

“How?”

“A public split with James. It won’t be hard. We always get into fights.”

“About _pure-blood ideology_?” Regulus said incredulously

“It won’t be hard,” Grace promised.

“Have you two talked about this already? Does James know—”

Grace shook her head. “No, he doesn’t. And I can’t tell him, not immediately. He wouldn’t let me, and would probably storm the castle to arrest you and the other Death Eaters here. I’ve got to wait till I’m in with you lot before I can tell him.”

“So if you were to get into an argument with him…”

“It wouldn’t be a fake one. Well—it would be fake to me, but not to him.”

“Are you _sure_ about this?” Regulus pressed. “Even if you manage to get James well and angry at you, I don’t know how convinced You-Know-Who would be at at the act.”

And here was the final detail of her plan. Here was the last piece that completed this towering tangle of trickery and deceit.

“It won’t matter if he’s convinced, not really. I’ve got something You-Know-Who wants.”

Worry creased his brow. “What do you mean?”

“I can See.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You-Know-Who is looking for a Seer. I know he is, Regulus. I saw the _Prophet_ article about Vablatsky’s death. She died by her own hand, but Death Eaters _were_ there. You-Know-Who wants a Seer.”

The planes of Regulus’s face were tight and rigid. “It was a passing idea. I don’t know if he’s serious about it.”

“Must be pretty serious about it if he tried to recruit one of the most famed Seers of the century.”

“What do you mean you can See? What he’s looking for is more than just tarot cards and—”

“I know. And I can do more than that. I haven’t—” she bit back a groan of frustration, “—I haven’t _quite_ figured out how yet, but I’m practicing. Before Vablatsky died, she compiled notes and scrolls about her students. And she wrote about me. She wrote about my condition, and it’s related to something called Seer’s—”

“—snag?” he completed.

Grace’s words died in her throat. She didn’t have to ask him how she knew that, because she already knew. Regulus had always read more than she ever cared to, especially when it came to Hywell’s disease. Regulus had just about devoured every book the Hogwarts library had to offer on magical energy disorders after Grace had come clean to him about her condition in first year. Of course he had stumbled upon the phrase _Seer’s snag._

“So you know?” she said immediately, and her voice morphed from eager to vexed. “How come you didn’t tell me?”

He gaped at her. “I did tell you! Not the exact name for it, probably, but I told you about how ancient wizards thought magi-neurological diseases were connected to Seeing. You thought it was a steaming pile of rubbish! And—honestly, Grace—it _is_.”

Grace vaguely remembered this, but she refused to feel bad about it. Regulus had probably told her this back when he was going through his ‘research phase.’ He had droned on and on to her about the history of Hywell’s, the genetics behind it, how prognoses were formed; amidst the deluge of information, how could she have possibly caught onto the idea of Seeing?

“It’s not rubbish,” she said hotly. “This isn’t some dusty tome you found in the back of the library. Vablatsky left behind an _entire_ journal. She wouldn’t lie to me. This is real.”

“What if—” he shook his head suddenly. “No—wait. Okay, suppose it’s true. Suppose you figure out how to induce visions. Are you really willing to give You-Know-Who that advantage? Even if we are funneling information about his activity to the other side, it won’t mean anything if you’re providing You-Know-Who with knowledge of the future.”

“Regulus, I wouldn’t _actually_ tell him anything! I think I’d need to give him a genuine prophecy to convince him in the beginning, but after that, I’ll just fake it.”

“Fake it?” he repeated dubiously.

“Yes,” she said, drawing out the word. She leaned against the back of the armchair and studied Regulus’s pensive form. “This is a good plan. Maybe not a perfect one, but it’s our best shot.”

He didn’t answer immediately. He seemed to dissecting all Grace had said, picking apart the plan piece by piece, checking that each step interlocked tightly into the next, making sure there was no chance of error. Grace watched him, twisting her hands in her lap. The flames of the hearth crackled quietly.

After what might have been eons, Regulus finally spoke:

“Okay,” he said. “But there is a _lot_ we need to do in preparation. You can’t just split from James overnight. You’ll have to start fracturing the relationship now. It helps that you’re in Slytherin and he was in Gryffindor. Oh—and you’ll have to learn Occlumency, of course. I can teach it to you, but it’ll take time. And—”

Grace could not stop the slow smile working its way across her lips. Regulus faltered and frowned at her.

“This isn’t like a prank, Grace,” he chided. “This is serious.”

She rolled her eyes. “I _know_ that. It’s just… It’s nice to be together again.”

_It’s nice to be on the same side again._

He softened. Grace saw it instantly: the hard lines of his face fell away. His shoulders slacked, and he eased back into his seat. The silver of his eyes caught the gold of hers.

“Yeah,” he agreed. His gaze flickered over her face before retreating. He shook his head slightly. “I can’t believe you came up with all this just for me.”

“Regulus,” she said, and his name felt like so much more than just a name. It felt like starlight and her bursting heart and an ocean of hope. “I would go to the ends of the earth for you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s the first chapter of 2020! I’ve been waiting to give you guys this chapter for SO long. I really hope you enjoyed it, and that Grace and Regulus’s reconciliation met your expectations!
> 
> Happy New Year!! And, as always, thank you for the kudos and comments! Keep letting me know your thoughts :)


	9. Steel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grace and Regulus prepare to set their plan in motion.

“…noticed the secondary use of Alihotsy leaves after accidentally mistaking the ingredient for crushed angel’s trumpet and mixing it into her cauldron of Weed-Be-Gone. When Huntington subsequently used her batch of homemade weed killer on her garden, she found that the Alihotsy-substituted potion fortified the weeds instead of—” Grace sighed as she reached the end of the page. She flipped to the next one, and saw that the article went on for much longer than she originally thought it did. “Dad, do you _really_ like hearing about this stuff? Can’t I read you something more interesting?”

Grace flicked through page after page, hoping this edition of _Potions Quarterly_ might contain at least one article that wasn’t dreadfully dull. Just as she reached a piece about the hallucinogenic properties of moondust, quiet snores reached her ears.

Sighing, she set down the magazine, and found that her father had nodded off somewhere in the middle of her reading. She leaned back, running a hand through her unruly hair, watching the gentle rise and fall of Dad’s chest. He had pulled his cotton blankets up snug under his chin, and his face was pressed into his pillows. His skin was so sallow and off-color that it seemed almost green next to the stark, blinding white of his sheets.

Another snore erupted from him.

“Good Godric,” Mum muttered from the cot over. “Don’t tell me he’s fallen asleep again.”

“That he has.” Grace gingerly placed the magazine on his bedside, and rose from her wicker chair. She stretched her arms out and padded over to her mother’s side. “I half-suspect he has me read these articles _knowing_ it’ll put him right to sleep.”

“I wouldn’t put it past him,” Mum agreed. “Be a darling and close off his curtains, would you? They’ve got a sound-proofing charm on them, because Merlin knows once he starts snoring like that, I can hardly hear anything else.”

She snorted and did just that. Mum smiled in appreciation, and reached out a hand, beckoning Grace close. Under the harsh white light of the ward, the rash that crawled along Mum’s arm seemed redder than it really was—rough and raw, like the skin had been scraped clean off, like her insides were bleeding out. Grace’s stomach turned at the sight of it. She dropped her eyes from her mother’s form, choosing instead to inspect the grooves of the grey-white tiles, and absently took Mum’s hand in her own slight, tanned one.

“What is it?” Grace asked, and pretended not to notice the tremble of her mother’s hand in her own, pretended not to feel how weak the grip was—because this was _not_ how her mother held onto things.

Euphemia Potter held on relentlessly, stubbornly. Grace remembered the tight hold of her mother’s hand around her and James’s wrists whenever they went to Diagon Alley—afraid that if her grip wasn’t strong enough, someone might pull her children away. She remembered how her mother held onto the presents she and James and would give her for her birthday; Mum would hold up the horrendously patterned shawl or badly drawn picture or whatever it was they had gotten her up to her chest, like she wanted to press the gift into her heart.

“Nothing,” Mum said simply, and gave Grace’s hand a small squeeze. She smiled up at her wanly. “I just missed you.”

She was drowning and burning all at once—helplessly submerged in the endless wave of Mum’s affection and, somehow, _angry_ as well. Irritated at the coughs that wracked her mother’s body and the thin sheen of sweat that clung to her father’s face and the terrible realization that her parents were waning and wilting before her very eyes. She wanted to drag a horde of Healers over, demand that they fix this, because it was their job to do so. She wanted to rip the disease right out of their bodies. If she could, she would have dueled the Dragon Pox away. But she was just as helpless as Mum and Dad, just as lost. Her heart drowned in her mother’s love. Her face burned with failure.

Grace tugged her hand away from her mother’s. “I’ve got to use the loo,” she mumbled hastily. “I’ll only be a few.” And then, because the weight of sickness was too heavy, too stifling, because Mum’s eyes were growing ever damp, because Grace’s heart was twisting and turning at an alarming pace, she added, jokingly, “I can read Dad’s magazine to you when I get back, if you want.”

Mum cracked a slight smile. “Oh, _please_ don’t do that,” she said. “I’ll be out like a light before you’ve even gotten through the first sentence.”

“A different magazine, then,” Grace promised.

She headed out of the ward. As soon as she was past the huge double doors, she lifted the Bubble-Head Charm, and took in a deep breath. The air of St. Mungo’s was crisp and sharp. She could almost taste the bitter edge of wormwood.

She wandered over to the waiting area she had met James and Lily in earlier. They were still there, sectioned off in their own private corner. James’s arm was wound around Lily’s shoulders. They were whispering.

They were always whispering. Grace only ever managed to catch snatches of conversation. It was Order business, she was sure. And although she was well-aware that James had revealed his part in the Order by accident, that she was technically not supposed to know anything about it, she was still a bit miffed that he continued to hide it from her. He used to tell her so much—perhaps _too_ much at times—and Grace had done the same.

“Why’re you always out here whenever I come visit?” Grace demanded once she was close enough. “How come you’re never inside talking with Mum and Dad? They’re lonely.”

James winced at her words but covered it up quickly. “Do they miss me? I thought they’d be sick of seeing me around the ward by now,” he joked uneasily.

Grace’s lips thinned. “Nice to see you can still joke around while our parents are confined to bed.”

“I didn’t—I mean, it was just—” he spluttered for a moment, and then merely shook his head and stood up.

“No, go on,” she said, growing bolder. She stepped forward, and lifted her chin up. “What did you _mean_ to say, then?”

He simply stared at her, hunched over, hands stuffed into his pockets, looking infinitely more weary by the second. He could have fought back. She knew he could. But he didn’t—either because he simply didn’t have the energy or was acutely aware that their parents were just down the ward or just didn’t think it was worth it.

“Merlin,” she breathed, “don’t you _think_ before you—”

“Alright,” he cut in tensely. The word was sharp, biting. “I’m going to see them now, okay?”

The air between them was clouded with stress and strain. Grace nodded stiffly. “Dad’s sleeping. Don’t wake him up.”

She stood sharp and ramrod straight—a spear, a weapon. James held her gaze for a moment, slumped and tired, before nodding. His feet shuffled against the white linoleum as he made his way into the ward. He seemed scarcely more than a shadow, a husk of a person 

She wished she wasn’t as good at getting under his skin as she was.

“Hey,” Lily said, voice waspish.

Grace’s gaze snapped to her sister-in-law. “What?”

Lily took a step towards her. She was just as tired as James, just as lean and bent—but her eyes were as keen and fierce as ever. Her gaze seared into Grace. “I know things are tough for you right now, but you can’t take it out on James. He has it hard enough already. You don’t—” Lily sighed, and the stiff anger in her melted into something softer, “—you don’t know how much of what you say he takes to heart. He doesn’t brush it off, not like you do.”

She didn’t know how to respond to that, not immediately at least. Guilt wrapped around her heart like a vise. It was all fine when she and Regulus had discussed it in the Room. It was all pretend. None of it was real, not really.

But it was. It was to James. It was to Lily. And all that hurt, that disappointment and pain and anguish they threw back—that was real to Grace.

“Just…try to be a little more understanding,” Lily pleaded.

Grace looked into those green eyes—those green eyes that had tutored and comforted and advised her these past seven years—and pursed her lips. “Don’t tell me what I should and shouldn’t do,” she sneered, and pulled herself away from Lily.

Grace turned on her heel and briskly headed down the hallway. Healers and patients blurred passed her. She didn’t know where it was she was going until she caught sight of the bathroom and barreled inside. She didn’t have to leave the ward, of course. She didn’t even have to leave Lily’s side. She just needed a moment alone. She needed to calm the riptide overturning her chest.

She found her way over to the row of sinks, and leaned against the edge of the marble, palms pressing into the side. Her eyes traced the fine fractures of ash grey, climbing up and up—past the metal of the faucet, over the rim of the wall—until she found her face in the mirror. Under the white light, her smooth tan seemed wan and pale; her hair was bedraggled and flustered; and once she got past the puffy bags that lined her eyes and the faint red tinge—she saw James, because these were James’s eyes, too.

Grace’s hand climbed the smooth neck of the faucet until it reached the tap. She lifted it, just so she’d have something to do. With a gentle hiss, water streamed out. She ran her other hand underneath it, let the water skim over her, ever gentle, ever kind.

She wondered if it would be worth it to just come clean, to just tell James what it was she was up to. She would not have to feel Lily’s burning wrath then. She would not have to see James’s frail face, his trembling chin, the haunted look in his eye. It would save them all the hurt and heartache if she could just tell him.

But she couldn’t.

He would be livid if she told him. She knew it. He would tell her she wasn’t thinking straight. Merlin, she could almost hear his voice: _Just what do you think you’re doing? Having a go at You-Know-Who at seventeen?_ And he’d get her to tell her who the Death Eaters in Hogwarts were. And Regulus would be found out. And Grace could not allow that to happen. It wasn’t an option.

She didn’t realize her hand was still on the faucet handle until steaming hot water hit her. She cursed and jerked her right hand back, rubbing over the faintly blistered skin. When the sting of the burn was gone, she hid both her hands in the pockets of her robes, and left the bathroom, not at all looking forward to seeing James and Lily again.

She wondered how long this would have to go on for—the barbs, the jeers, the jabs. She hoped it would go quick. She didn’t know if she had the stamina to carry so much hate for so long.

When Grace reached the doors to the ward, she found that Lily had disappeared. Quietly, Grace slipped past the doors. She could hear James whispering to Mum, his voice little more than a whisper brushing against the ground. She didn’t want to upset the calm of the ward, so she stayed quiet and slinked behind Dad’s curtains, settling back at his side, trying very hard to ignore the rumble of snores that escaped him.

“—the shipment of winterbloom’s been delayed, but hopefully it’ll be here soon. I don’t know if it’ll reverse anything, but it should at least stop any progression.”

“Healer Jenkins doesn’t seem to think it’ll do much good,” Mum said quietly.

“Sod Jenkins,” James muttered darkly. “I don’t—he’s not a good Healer, Mum. Honest. His other patients hate him, too.”

“You’ve been rallying his other patients against him, too?” There was a ghost of a smile lurking in there somewhere.

“…Maybe.”

Silence followed. Grace gathered herself in the chair, drawing her knees up. She frowned into the mint green of the curtains, waiting. The seconds grew into minutes.

At last, Mum coughed out, “James…if something happens to us—”

“Mum, don’t say that. Please don’t.” His voice was tight and choked.

“But if something _does_ happen, darling. If something does…you remember what your father and I have told you, don’t you?”

“I’ll look after Grace. I’ve promised you a million times already, Mum.”

“She’s been saying you haven’t been talking to her—”

“Mum, I’m _trying_.” His words were clawing, desperate. Grace could almost see the tears in his eyes. “Mum—I’m really, really trying. But there’s so much happening. There’s—oh, Merlin—if I told you—”

“James,” their mother said, alarmed. “Darling, what is it?”

And, for a moment, Grace actually thought James might come clean. She thought he might actually collapse into his mother’s arms the way he used to when he was little and the guilt over breaking vases or tea cups had finally eaten him up. She thought he might actually tell her about Dumbledore’s Order and the late-night excursions to hunt down Death Eaters and whatever else he and Lily had been hiding.

“Lily had a miscarriage.”

A strangled sound escaped Grace’s throat. Her hand flew up to cover her mouth.

“What?” Mum wheezed. “Oh, James… Oh, dear—when did this happen? You never said anything… I’m so sorry. How is Lily?”

“She’s doing fine. She’s doing—” James let out one heart-wrenching sob, and suddenly his words were no longer words. They were half-gasps, feeling torn straight from his heart. “We—we didn’t even _know_ she was… We didn’t even _know_! And when the—when the Healer came and told us, Mum—I couldn’t—I couldn’t—!”

“I know,” Mum said. “I know, I know…”

Of course she knew. No one knew better than Mum, because she had gone through it, too, hadn’t she? Waited years and years and years for a child, and—just as they were giving up—she had been blessed with James.

Grace sat still as stone besides Dad’s sleeping form. As her brother wept, she felt her insides curdle and sour. Merlin, how long had he been keeping this to himself? How long had he been stuffing down his hurt so he could keep Lily happy and Sirius occupied and the Order satisfied?

“It was a while ago,” James sniffed after a moment. “I shouldn’t be so… It happened the day before you were admitted, Mum. I figured, with everything happening—it wasn’t the right time. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize.” A long pause followed. “James, I’m worried for you.”

“I’ll be fine, Mum.”

“Have you been sleeping?” Her voice was so soft, so weary.

“I’m _fine_,” he insisted quietly. “Don’t worry about me. You should be worrying about yourself.”

“James…”

“I promise I’m fine.”

“Take care of yourself, James. I love you.” Mum was crying now, too. Grace felt tears prick her own eyes. “I love you.”

Grace loved him, too. She loved him so much, she knew precisely how to hurt him, how to make him bend and break, how to have him hate her—at least for a little while.

* * *

Grace was in a foul mood when she returned to Hogwarts later in the afternoon. She tried to brush it off, tried to concentrate on finishing her homework with Ophelia in the library and enjoy Sophia’s banter during dinner in the Great Hall, but found she couldn’t quite let go of James’s choked words, his staggered weeps. Why hadn’t he told her about Lily’s miscarriage earlier? Why hadn’t he told her he felt so overwhelmed? Merlin—he was so bloody obsessed with protecting everyone that he’d completely forgotten himself.

She stormed up the steps to the seventh floor, mind in a flurry, lips set into a deep frown. The door to the Room had already been conjured, and Grace grabbed and pulled at the handle with more force than strictly necessary, stamping inside.

It had taken on a form more suited to Regulus; there were still plenty of soft, plush armchairs and couches, but the walls were lined with shelf after shelf of books. Torches clung to the walls, bathing the whole of the room in a warm orange light.

As soon as she was inside, Regulus rose from his seat and set down his book. He grasped her gently by the elbow and pulled her close. “You were upset at dinner,” he said. “What happened?”

The grey of his eyes—so soft, as downy as the feathers of a hatchling—traced over her, and Grace’s ire deflated into something calmer.

“Nothing I didn’t already expect,” she sighed. “It’s just…harder than I thought it would be. Being mean to James and Lily when they haven’t done anything to deserve it.”

He frowned. “You _really_ don’t have to do this, Grace. It’s not too late to call off this whole thing. I haven’t written to Bellatrix yet.”

She shook her head and pushed past him, collapsing onto the couch, settling her head against one of the armrests and stretching her legs out against the other. She shrugged off her bag and let it thud against the floor. “No—no, I’m doing this. I want to see you safe, Regulus. And…this is bigger than us, too. The Order and the Ministry _need_ help, and we’re the only ones who can give it.”

Regulus swung over to her side, kneeling down against the sofa. “Are you _sure_ the Sorting Hat meant to put you in Slytherin and not Gryffindor?” he teased softly.

She snorted. “Shove off.”

He stood up and nudged at her legs. “Budge over.”

Grace hoisted herself up and lifted her legs away. Regulus settled into the other side of the couch. Just as he was reaching for his wand, she settled her legs back over his lap.

He sighed.

“Get me to move over,” she challenged. “I dare you.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m tired,” she corrected, and watched curiously as he summoned Vablatsky’s journal from his bag. “Have you made any progress on that?”

He flipped through the pages, and Grace caught sight of pages and pages annotated with his own scribbles and half-translations.

“Not much,” he admitted. “You were right. Her dialect is either a very rare one or completely made-up. I’ve only just caught up to what I think is her documentation of your progress during third year.”

“What does she say?”

Regulus opened to a particular page. “That you’re not doing as well as she thought you would. She says your Eye is stuck. ‘She seems afraid to heft it open,’ is exactly what she says.”

Grace frowned. She didn’t quite remember her third year. Apart from occasionally making up tarot interpretations, she didn’t think she’d done anything to indicate her performance had been terrible.

“Does Vablatsky mention _how_ to open my Inner Eye?” she asked.

“No. Not yet, at least.”

Grace let out an enormous sigh. “Great—today’s going to be another waste, then.”

“Not quite,” Regulus said, putting down the journal. “We’ve got to start Occlumency today.”

Grace perked up. She hauled herself up, and pulled her legs away from Regulus, sitting cross-legged. “_Finally_,” she breathed. “How is this going to work, exactly? Do you know Legilimency?”

“A little, but I’m not very good at it. I haven’t had much time to practice. I figured I could begin nonverbally. It’ll be weak, but I think it would be best to ease you into all this, since it’s going to be—” he hesitated for a moment, trying to find the right word, “—weird. I don’t _want_ to force myself into your mind, but it’s the only way to build up the defense. At least you don’t have to do this with Bellatrix like I did. But it’s not very pleasant no matter who you do it. It’s just…really, _really_ weird.”

“I did your assigned reading, Regulus,” she assured. “I know what to expect.”

“I didn’t _assign_ you—”

“You literally gave me four different books to read about Occlumency.”

“It was, at the most, _suggested_ reading. Not _assigned_.”

“Well, I read them, anyway.”

His brows rose. “All of them? Even the historical records?”

“Even the historical records,” she nodded. “See—I’m taking this seriously.”

“I never said you weren’t. I just didn’t think… I mean, each book must have been at least five hundred pages long.”

“Yeah, I just didn’t turn in my Charms essay.”

“Grace!” Regulus said, appalled. “I know we’re trying to turn the tide of the war, but you still have to do your homework.”

“I’m just _kidding_—”

“I really don’t think you are!”

It was too much for her. She laughed, bright and full. “You must be the _only_ person on this planet who thinks homework is more important than defeating You-Know-Who.” She smiled at him fondly. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m _tired_,” he threw back.

She rolled her eyes and leaned forward. “Are we going to start Occlumency training, or do you want to go on about the merits of homework?”

“I—” he let out a breath. “Okay, _fine_. But you’ve got to do your homework. Really. Professors will start to get concerned, and we can’t have that sort of attention on us.”

“I’m doing my homework, I promise you,” she insisted. “Now, come on—Occlumency time.” She eased up and rubbed her hands together. “Where do we begin?”

“Do you remember the techniques from the books?” he asked. She nodded. “Okay, so just begin with that. Clear your mind. Fortify it. I’ll try to—er—use Legilimency on you.”

“Alright,” she agreed, and promptly shut her eyes.

She let the events of the day, all her errant thoughts, wash away until her mind was as relaxed as a steady, gentle breeze. It was hardly difficult. She had practiced a few times before, and found the technique similar to what Vablatsky had taught her. _Still the waters of your mind, keep your thoughts calm and clear._

She harbored this calm for a little while, immersed herself in it, before growing bored. She cracked a lid open, and saw Regulus still sitting opposite her, both eyes shut, brows furrowed in concentration.

“Are you doing anything?”

He shushed her. “I’m—hold on…”

She swallowed down her sigh and closed her eyes once more. She sat like this—in stifled silence, unmoving—for what felt like hours and hours before finally feeling the gentlest of prods. It was as if her mind were a lake and someone had skimmed a smooth, flat stone across the surface of it.

“Oh!” she exclaimed. “I felt something. It’s—it’s like you’re poking my brain a bit.”

As soon as she spoke, the mild jabbing stopped. Grace opened her eyes, and found Regulus slumped against the back of the couch, rubbing at his head.

“How are you _talking_?” he demanded. “You should be focusing all your energy on this, and—and it was just a _little_ poking?”

“Yeah, like—” she reached out and prodded Regulus’s shoulder lightly, “—that. But in my head.”

He stared at her. “I mean—it was nonverbal and I wasn’t looking directly into your eyes…but it still should have been more than just a little poke. That was really _all_ you felt?”

“Er—yes…?” She looked at him carefully. “Is this good or bad?”

“It’s good,” he said immediately. “Surprising, but extremely, wonderfully good. Your leaps ahead of where I was when I first started. Merlin, I think you’ve got some sort of natural affinity for it. Your mind’s like steel, Grace.”

She warmed at the words, and ducked her head. “Ah, it’s nothing,” she waved away, even though she knew full well it wasn’t. “If you spent seventeen years putting up with James and his antics, your head would probably be the same.”

He chuckled. “Maybe—or you just have a talent for keeping your mind empty. Not very surprising considering how little attention you used to pay during History of Magic.”

She rolled her eyes. “Oh, _ha_, _ha_,” she said. “Shall I bring up that time you got _so_ into trimming your bubotuber in fourth year that you accidentally cut it clean in half and were drenched head to toe in pus? Should I be channeling _that_ level of mindlessness, Reg?”

“You know what?” he quipped. “I take it back. There’s no way you could have even been _considered_ for Gryffindor. You’re absolutely merciless.”

She grinned. “Yeah—and you love it.”

And she thought maybe he’d snort and say, _Yeah, right—just as much as I would love being gored to death by a manticore_. But he didn’t. He just kept looking at her softly, and the corners of his mouth quirked into the slightest of smiles.

“What?” Grace asked.

“I just missed you,” he said simply. “These past few months, I felt like I’d been split in two. I don’t mean it like—like I was conflicted. I mean it like—when you weren’t there, it was like—” he struggled for a moment. “It’s hard to explain.”

“It’s okay. I know what you mean.”

She had felt it, too. She sometimes forgot that she and Regulus were two distinct people, separate from one another. It was hard to tell where one of them ended and the other began; they bled into each. It had been seven years. Of course they had a little of the other in them. Of course it hurt when the other wasn’t there anymore. The separation could have been a day, an hour, a _minute_, and Grace was sure it would have hurt the same—a cleaver sailing straight through her soul, severing it into two.

She didn’t know who had moved first—perhaps both of them—but they were suddenly huddled together at the center of the couch, knees touching, and Regulus had her hands in his. He was looking down at her with a tenderness that made her heart flutter in her chest like a bird.

He reached her first—lips against lips, hands traveling up to cradle her face—and Grace fell into him easily. It was nothing like the sudden, spitfire kiss they had a few days ago. This was all Regulus: slow, deep, rhythmic. This was an ocean of affection pulling at her, dragging her under—and Grace wanted nothing more than to be swept away.

But they had _so_ much work to do.

She drew away gently. “I didn’t read about this Occlumency technique in the textbooks you gave me.”

His cheeks were pinched with a faint pink. “You’re intolerable,” he said matter-of-factly.

She smiled. “Thank you. Now—what’s next?”

He sighed quietly. “Well…You-Know-Who’s nonverbal Legilimency is going to be much more powerful than mine. I thought we’d stick with the nonverbal version to ease you in, but you seem to already have a solid grasp on the foundations.” He pulled his wand out. “We might as well just skip to the next step.”

Grace eyed the wand warily. “Great. I’ll just be doing the same as usual, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay.” She took a deep breath, and closed her eyes.

“Er—no, wait, don’t do that.”

She opened her eyes. “Don’t do what?”

“Don’t shut your eyes. You won’t be able to do that when you’re talking to other Death Eaters.”

Uneasiness crept over her. “But it helps me concentrate.”

“Yes, but you’ll have to learn how to concentrate with your eyes open. Just—look at me, alright?”

Her hazel eyes locked onto Regulus’s grey ones. “Alright. Here goes nothing, I suppose.”

“Legilimens,” Regulus said softly.

She felt it immediately: an incessant pounding against all the corners of her head. Her lips twisted into a grimace. “This one’s a bit rougher—”

“Don’t talk.”

“But I can’t just stay silent all the time. It’s like you said: I’ll have to talk to other Death—_ouch_, Regulus—!” she winced as a particularly painful throb overcame her. She could feel the disruption in her mind. It was like a break in atmosphere, like an earthquake trying to overturn the careful peace she had nurtured. “Merlin’s fucking _balls_ that hurts—”

Regulus’s own face was twisted in discomfort. “Grace—it’s hard to concentrate when you’re talking—”

“Haven’t you been doing this for months and—_fuck_—” she leapt from the couch and ground her teeth. It was as if a battering ram had been taken to her head, and Grace could only hold out her mental shield for so long. “Oh, no—I think you’ve—”

_She was huddled under a mountain of sheets and sniffling. This bed wasn’t at all like her bed at home. This bed was stiff and thin and entirely too small for her to roll around in. She wanted her big bed, which she could jump around on, which fit her and all her stuffed toys, which Mummy and Daddy tucked her into when it was getting dark out._

_And, speaking of Mummy and Daddy—where were they? Grace had only just woken up. Her bones ached terribly, like they had been zapped by lightning. And her limbs were so weak she could barely lift them. And her head was heavy—so, so heavy._

_The tears came thick and fast, and suddenly she was sobbing into her sheets, into the pillow that was not her pillow. She wanted to go home. She wanted to be hugged. She wanted the aching to stop, to feel light and airy, like clouds and feathers, and—and—anything but this!_

_“Gracie?” a timid little voice called out._

_She lifted her head up slightly and caught sight of James, small and huddled in a chair pulled to her bedside. His dark hair was wild and flurried. In his hands was his mooncalf stuffed toy, Bluey, which he held tight against his chest._

_Grace rubbed at her eyes. “Wh—where’s Mummy and Daddy?”_

_“Talking to the lady.”_

_She frowned. “What lady?”_

_He shrugged._

_“Where are we?”_

_“Saint—” he struggled for a moment, trying to recall the word, “—Mumbo’s.”_

_“Mumbo’s?” she repeated. She didn’t know what that was. She didn’t like the word. It sounded dumb. “I want to go home.”_

_“Me, too,” he agreed. “But Mummy said we have to wait.”_

_Another wave of annoyance crashed over her. “I want to go home,” she repeated, hoping, somehow, that if she said it enough times, Mummy and Daddy would appear and whisk her away. “I want to go home!”_

_And suddenly she was crying again._

There was this part of her—small, slight, and struggling—that was well aware this was simply a memory. She tried to rouse this part of her, tried to make it bigger, tried to have it overwhelm the intrusion, force it out, but she couldn’t figure out how. She couldn’t—

_James left his seat in an instant, and lumbered towards Grace’s cot. He hefted himself onto the edge and pulled himself close to her. Grace, still wailing, tried to kick him away. She didn’t want James so close to her, because he was always mean to her—pulling on her hair and stealing her toys and telling Mummy and Daddy that she was a crybaby when she wasn’t! _

_“Go away!” she sobbed. “Go—go away!”_

_He didn’t. He settled down right next to her and gently, gingerly tucked Bluey under her sheets. The action was so startling that Grace forgot to continue to cry. She blinked up at him, tears clinging to her lashes, trying to make sense of what was happening._

_“You have to keep him in your arms,” James commanded. He picked up Grace’s hands for her and draped them around Bluey. “There, like that. And pet him.”_

_Grace’s eyes flickered down to the stuffed animal unsurely. At James’s continued insistence, she began to stroke Bluey’s silver-blue fur. It was incredibly soft, and, soon, Grace buried her entire face into its side. It smelled of fresh dirt and Mummy’s crop of jasmine. James must have tossed it into the garden by accident._

_James beamed. “See,” he said proudly. “It’s working.”_

_“What’s working?” she sniffled._

_“Bluey makes bad feelings go away,” he explained._

_“Oh.” Her grip around the toy increased. There were a great many bad feelings roiling within her._

_“Mummy can buy one for you later.”_

_She looked up and smiled at him, her white teeth peeking through. “Can it be a kneazle?”_

_James nodded enthusiastically. “Yeah! Or an owl or a unicorn or a dragon—”_

It pained her to see James like this: so small, so carefree, so full of hope. His hazel eyes—so like hers, too much like hers—wide open and endlessly bright. She could almost feel the happiness roll of him, like the rays of the sun, like rhapsody. She wanted this warmth back in her life. She wanted—she wanted—

She wanted the memory to end. It was beating down on her, relentless, suffocating. She needed it to end right now. The corners of her mind twisted and turned in protest. The longer she was in her own head, the more it tore. It was as though someone had taken a knife to her mind, ripping through it, shredding and mangling it. She needed—she needed it—

“PROTEGO!”

_The walls were dark and shadowed, with rows and rows of silent portraits and somber tapestries. Shattered porcelain lay on the floor, the white of it stark and blinding. A terrible fear overwhelmed—_

The fear scurried over her like some many-legged insect. She could feel it crawl over her, bite into her, puncture her down to the bone. She was struck still by the intensity of it. She had never known fear to be so incapacitating. She had never known her home to seem so bleak and unfamiliar. She had never felt less like herself. She was not even sure if she was herself.

_“What have you done?” Each word struck like a whip._

_Regulus—small and slight and somehow balancing five large books in his arms—looked up at his mother. Panic gripped him. The books, which had been so heavy and bulky and prevented him from seeing the vase when he was walking over to the staircase, fell from his arms._

_“I—I—” he began, suddenly unable to string words into sentences, which was quite ridiculous for him. Because, already, even at the age of seven, he had read one-fifth of the ancient books in the family library, and knew full well how to string words into sentences._

_Just as the first of the tears began to prick his eyes, Sirius appeared out of nowhere, as he often did. (Regulus suspected his older brother possessed some sort of special ability that enabled him to materialize whenever there was even the slightest bit of trouble.)_

_“I did it,” Sirius said. The words rang loud and clear. The lie flew from his lips so easily, so naturally, that, for a moment, even Regulus believed him. “Reg just found my mess.”_

_Sirius looked up at their mother with something like casual disobedience. He looked like the sort of person who never got into trouble, who didn’t believe the word ‘punishment’ applied to someone like him—which was rather bold, because Regulus knew for a fact Sirius had been punished many times over._

_Mother drew herself up to her full height. In the dark, gloomy shadows of Grimmauld Place, she seemed little more than a specter—all bony hands and withered face and dark eyes. _

_“Sirius Orion Black,” she hissed, throwing out each word like a dagger, “how dare you defile your ancestral home! How dare you traipse around without even a shred of dignity. Don’t you know where you’re stepping? Don’t you know—”_

_And Regulus was already crying and sniffling, although he didn’t know why. The sound was so disconcerting that Mother actually stopped her yelling to stare at her youngest son, wide-eyed, like she couldn’t wrap her mind around what had overcome him, like she wasn’t familiar with the saltwater slipping down his face._

_Her confusion rapidly morphed into irritation. “Go to your room,” she snapped._

_Regulus didn’t need to be told twice. He bolted upstairs, books forgotten, and crawled into his bed. He fished out an old book from under the covers and opened it, hoping the words would suck him quick and fast and he could forget everything that just happened—Mother’s horrible fury and Sirius’s open defiance and the guilt worming its way through Regulus’s heart._

Grace felt that guilt crack through her chest and intertwine with her own. She was strangled by it, choked by it. She could feel Lily’s hard stare, the green of her eyes burning into her soul. She could almost hold that fire in her hands. She could almost taste it—ash on her tongue. It wasn’t memory anymore. It was something stronger. She was being steamrolled by the weight of it. Like—

_He was being burned alive. The back of his throat was scorched something awful. His body trembled and twitched, and—slowly, heaving, the blazing need leading him on—he dragged himself forward._

_“Thirsty…” He scraped himself along the rock. “I need…”_

_He reached into the murky green lake, relished in the brief cool of the churning water. And then—and then—_

_Something reached back._

_He was just getting to the part about the fairies when his door creaked open and Sirius slid inside._

_He was in a stormy mood: lips pursed, feet stamping against the floor. There was an angry red blotch on his cheek, and Regulus’s stomach twisted at the sight of it. He didn’t say anything as Sirius climbed onto his bed, and Sirius didn’t say anything, either._

_For a moment, Regulus figured Sirius must be angry with him, and the mere thought was so frightening he almost wanted to cry again._

_“I’m sorry,” Regulus said immediately, and hoped this would fix everything. “I’m sorry—I didn’t know Mother was going to be there. I didn’t see her. And I didn’t see the vase—and I’m so sorry—”_

_He screamed, but it only released the little air he still had. Water swept into his open mouth, his tight lungs. He kicked and he kicked, but there were hands winding over his limbs, stilling him, tugging him ever down._

_Black clouded his vision. His ears were plugged with water. As his body went numb, a voice cut through the air like a knife:_

_“Regulus!”_

_After a tense moment of silence, Sirius sighed and relaxed against Regulus’s mound of pillows. “Stop breaking things,” he commanded._

_“I’m sorry,” Regulus said again, and wished there was a stronger word. ‘Sorry’ didn’t capture the hurt that wracked through him. It couldn’t show Sirius how deeply distressed he was, how much he wished he could turn back time. “I was going to ask Kreacher to fix it, but then Mother came in. And—and—I didn’t know what to say.”_

_Sirius let out a groan. “You know you can just lie to Mother, right? Tell her Kreacher broke it next time.”_

_Regulus stared at his brother. “But then Kreacher will be in trouble!” _

_“So what?”_

_“But he didn’t do anything.”_

_Sirius’s lips dipped into a deep frown. “And I didn’t do anything, but you still let me take the blame for it.”_

_Regulus shrunk into his pillows. “I didn’t ask you to… And I said I was sorry.”_

_Sirius studied him for a moment, and then sighed. “Just lie next time.”_

_“Okay,” Regulus said, even though he didn’t know how. Wouldn’t Mother be able to tell if he was lying?_

_“Good,” Sirius said, nodding his approval. He craned his neck over Regulus’s shoulder. “What’re you reading?”_

_The thick cluster of anxiety in Regulus’s chest dissipated in an instant. He shoved his book into Sirius’s face. “It’s about this sorceress who’s trying to get rid of some wicked fairies, and she made her wand herself and she’s got a pet occamy and—”_

The whirlpool of emotion that clouded the memory shifted, stilled, and calmed. The atmosphere was no longer heavy and leaden; it was flimsy, light as cotton, and it was suddenly so very easy for Grace to climb out, so very easy for her to escape the tunnel of the past. But before she could step out, she was thrown out—thrust back into herself.

She was keeled over on the floor, gasping for air. Her mind rolled with memory after memory. She felt like she had just dove deep into the ocean. Her wand dropped from her hand—_when did that get there?_—and clattered against the smooth wood, glinting silver under the flickering light of the torches.

She hefted herself up, and found Regulus slumped into the sofa, rubbing at his eyes. She climbed up and settled besides him.

“I’m _so_ sorry—” she began.

At precisely the exact same time, Regulus said, “Sorry, I didn’t—”

“What are _you_ sorry for?” she demanded softly. “I didn’t mean to grab my wand and force myself into your head. I don’t know what happened there.”

He shook his head. “No—it was good you did that. You got me out of your head. Eventually, you’ll have to be able to do it without your wand, though.” He swallowed thickly. “And—I dunno—I just didn’t realize… Seeing your memory of your brother made me think of mine, I suppose.” He collapsed further into the couch. “This was bound to happen. Delving into memories is inevitable when you’re practicing.”

She nodded along absently. “Right—but… Was that a memory?”

He turned to her, brows furrowed. “What?”

“The other thing.”

“What other thing?”

“With the—” she frowned, unable to recollect anything more than flashes, “—I dunno, there was water. A lot of it. And hands dragging… And—” her hand traced the bare skin of her throat. “Burning. I think it was you, but I couldn’t see it very well.”

Regulus stared at her. “Did we see the same thing? I accidentally broke a vase, and Mother—”

“Yeah, I saw that.” Grace was frowning tightly. “I saw that—but then there was something else, too. You didn’t see the second…whatever it was?”

“No. You said there was water?”

“Yeah… I think so.” It was slipping so fast, like a dream snatched by the morning. “I don’t know. That was really—” she broke off and shook her head. “Your books did _not_ prepare me for that.”

“You asked if that was a memory. Do you think it wasn’t?” Regulus pressed. He reached for Vablatsky’s journal. “Could it have been a vision? I haven’t gotten very far in translating, but Vablatsky wrote a little about ‘flashes of vision’ appearing in Seers’ minds. She was trying to figure out the way you Saw.”

“I dunno. This has never happened before. And I can’t even—” she shut her eyes tight and tried to conjure up what she had seen, but nothing came to mind. All she could manage to capture now was the feeling—one of intense dread. “I can’t remember it now. I don’t—I don’t _want_ to remember it. It felt awful.”

Regulus’s eyes flickered over her. He set down the book. “It’s okay,” he said softly. “We’ll figure it out later. For now, we should keep practicing.”

Grace’s stomach twisted at the thought. “Again?”

“Again,” he nodded. “You’ve got to manage to throw me out of your head—and _not_ catapult yourself into mine. The latter should be easy enough if you don’t use your wand again.”

Grace took a deep breath. “Okay,” she agreed. “But how do I throw you out of my head?”

“Did you feel me in there earlier?”

She winced as she recollected the hammering, the painful rip into her mind. “Yes.”

“Whenever you feel an intrusion in a specific area, focus in on that area. Make it stronger than the rest. Harsher. Enough to force me away.”

“Basically irritate you away?”

A small smile graced his lips. “Yeah, I suppose.”

“Easy enough.”

They practiced and practiced late into the night, until Regulus was satisfied with Grace’s ability to throw him out of her head. What had happened the first time round did not happen again, but, even still, Grace was unable to shake the shadow of that vision, the ghost of that feeling. _Water and hands and burning_, she found herself repeating. _Water and hands and burning…_

* * *

Grace leaned into the plush green couch, enjoying the warm gaze of the hearth against her skin. There were few students milling about the common room at this time of night, so the only noise she could hear was the gentle lap of the lake against the tall window panes. Her eyes flickered to a close.

“Oi!” Ophelia called out sharply, and threw a bunched up piece of parchment at her. It landed in Grace’s lap. “You’re either supposed to be finishing your Transfiguration essay or practicing the Patronus Charm, _not_ taking a nap.”

Grace let out a low groan and flicked away the crumpled paper. “How am I supposed to finish the essay if you won’t let me see yours?”

Ophelia’s lips thinned. “You shouldn’t have to see mine to complete yours.”

“I need to get inspiration from somewhere!”

“Read the textbook.”

“An abominable suggestion. As if I’d touch something so wretched—”

“If you keep talking, I’ll glue your tongue to the roof of your mouth.”

Grace’s lips snapped shut. She had seen Ophelia cast that very spell on Gamp just a few days ago, and it did not seem particularly pleasant. She leaned further back into the couch, taking one of the silver-lined throw pillows in her arms and hugging it tightly against her chest. Her eyes flew to the other corner of the common room, where Regulus was holed up with Cliodna. He was scribbling furiously while Cliodna pawed at his sleeve for some attention.

After a few more minutes of enduring Cliodna’s temper tantrum, Regulus let out a heavy sigh and stopped working. He lifted Cliodna up, and caught Grace’s eye in the process. He frowned at her.

She raised a brow.

_Do your homework_, he mouthed, and promptly turned away to lay Cliodna on the floor.

“When did everyone get so bloody obsessed with homework?” Grace muttered, tossing aside her pillow and reaching for her wand. “Alright, _fine_—Expecto Patronum!”

Long spirals of silver sprang from the tip of her wand, encircling Ophelia, who was sitting at the foot of the sofa, quill tight in hand, parchment spread out in front of her.

“Thank you,” Ophelia snipped, “for performing that spell directly over me. It’s not as if I need to _see_ my essay to write it.”

“Alright, okay, message received,” Grace said, easing away from the overwhelmed Prefect.

She turned away and cast the spell once more. Arcs of white light scattered from her wand, whirling over the sofa, into the air. The whole of the room was bathed in soft light.

“This is ridiculous,” she said matter-of-factly. “It’s almost the end of term and we’re _still_ doing this.”

“Maybe we could move on if you and the other handful of students could actually produce a corporeal Patronus,” Ophelia responded.

“Maybe we could do that if Vance were a competent teacher,” Grace shot back.

“Maybe you could stop talking and continue practicing.”

“Maybe you could stop writing and help me.”

“Maybe _you_—”

A fifth year off to the side shushed them. Ophelia glared at the student darkly while Grace huffed and hefted herself off the couch. She paced by the fireplace, trying to find a good memory to base her incantation on. It wasn’t that she _didn’t_ have any good memories. It was just that…it was hard to feel very happy about even her best memories now. When she tried to picture her parent’s bright, cheery faces, all she could seem to focus on was the green tinge to Dad’s skin and the red rash claiming Mum’s arms. When she thought about the many pranks she and James got up to over the years, she inevitably remembered his haggard face, his staggered weeping, the distressed look in his eye when she snapped at him.

Her eyes swept over the common room once more, and latched onto Regulus’s slight form. Cliodna was tugging at the hem of his robes now, mewling pathetically, and Regulus was trying very hard to finish his essay with one hand and pet her with the other. A small smile overcame Grace’s lips, and, slowly, her wand rose once more.

She didn’t enjoy their Occlumency lessons very much. They were draining and stressful and entirely too serious. But she did enjoy Regulus. She liked spending the time with him—liked the exasperated draw of his brow when she teased him and the worry that creased his face when she collapsed into his arms after a particularly tough day and, of course, the heated press of his lips against hers between sessions.

“Expecto Patronum,” she whispered.

A shower of silver burst from her wand. Amidst the flurry, a cat emerged—short and stocky, with an array of dark grey spots circling its coat. Its ears were tall and thin, and flattened back against its skull as it prowled the common room. Its ferocious little face scrunched up and let out a hiss whenever it neared a student.

“Oh, no,” Grace said, stricken. She pointed at the stub of a tail that flopped uselessly behind the skulking cat. “It’s _deformed_.”

Ophelia looked up and snorted. “No, it’s supposed to be like that. It’s a bobcat. Rather fitting, I suppose—unassuming at first glance, but could easily tear your eyes out if you let it near.”

The cat snarled and leapt forward, leaving a streak of white light in its wake. Regulus glanced up and nearly jumped into the air when he caught sight of the hulking creature. His eyes found Grace’s soon enough, and she gave him a small smile.

_Did my homework_, she mouthed.

* * *

They were snogging again. She had practiced putting up her mental shield a few times already. But, slowly, the Occlumency lesson turned into a snogging session. Grace felt they could hardly be blamed for it. They simply fell into each other too easily—driftwood swept up by a swift and spirited current, wayward leaves carried by a gentle and steady wind.

Grace nipped at Regulus’s lower lip, and grinned to herself when she heard him make a low, choked off sound in the back of his throat. She was just thinking about traveling further south when she felt the gentlest of prods in her head. Her head snapped up, and she pushed at Regulus, annoyed.

“Don’t _do_ that,” she said, frowning.

He eased up and smoothed back his disheveled hair. “You’ve got to be able to keep your shield up even if you’re distracted.”

“What—you think I’m going to be snogging you in front of You-Know-Who like this?”

“Obviously not, but if you’re panicked or nervous, you’ve still got—”

“I’ve been practicing every single day for the past three weeks, Regulus. I think I’ve got a pretty solid grasp on this by now.” She leaned away from him, studying the crease between his brows. His forehead was lined with concern. “You worry too much.”

“Well, one of us has to.”

“We can practice again, if you want,” she sighed.

She was growing rather bored of this. She still didn’t enjoy the mental strain of putting up her shield, but she had done it so many times that it was becoming second nature. She often found her hackles up during completely innocent activities—while she was in the loo, eating dinner, or walking between classes. Grace wouldn’t be surprised if it turned out her shield was up even while she was dreaming.

Regulus nodded. “Okay. Let’s practice how well you can project a false layer, because that’s the most important part of our plan. You-Know-Who will be suspicious if he senses a strong shield. If you can mask that with a thin layer of false thought—”

“Then he won’t have any reason to suspect I’m up to no good,” Grace finished for him. “What sort of layer do you want me to project?”

He shrugged. “Up to you. Why don’t you say out loud what our plan for holiday is while projecting something completely different?”

“Sounds good.” She cracked her neck, and leaned forward. “So—tomorrow morning, we’ll both be heading on the Hogwarts Express—”

“Legilimens,” Regulus said.

Her shield was so strong now that she hardly winced when she felt the painful jab. She flattened out her mind, smoothed the many folds in it. There were so many dimensions she had to ruffle through; she buried down all the things she was meant to hide—her love for her parents and for James, the plan she had so painstakingly crafted alongside Regulus—and forced up something entirely different. She felt Regulus latch onto the false layer, like a fish caught on a hook.

“—and we’ll both be going home. You’ve already written to Bellatrix about a ‘recruit who could be of great use to the Dark Lord,’ and she’s expressed interest in meeting me—”

She was thinking about how nice it had been when they were snogging and _not_ doing this. She was thinking about the tender skim of Regulus’s hands over the length of her cheek, cupping the underside of her jaw. The brush of his lips against hers—like sparks trailing over her, like molten lava claiming her.

“Salazar, Grace—” Regulus choked out after a moment. “_Really_?”

She ignored him. “—I’ll have one last ugly row with James once I’m at home. And after that, we’ll meet up in the Leaky Cauldron and stay low for a bit before meeting Bellatrix. Hopefully, she’ll take to me and introduce me to You-Know-Who sometime afterwards—”

And there were those sweet noises he made, too. The low moans, the breathless pants between kisses. She wanted to hear more of it.

“—and he’ll probably ask for a demonstration to see if I really can See. I’ll tell him I can’t just See on command, because I really _can’t_, and hopefully a tarot reading will tide him over. In any case—”

She wanted to feel more of him, too—wanted to knot her hands in his hair, wanted to trace the smooth planes of his body, wanted to press her lips against every crevice of him. The desire swallowed her like an ocean.

“—I’m fairly certain he’ll be too caught in the euphoria of having a Seer in his grasp to interrogate me properly. That, and you said he trusts Bellatrix implicitly, so I’ll likely have already gone through the heavy questioning with her—”

“Okay, okay,” Regulus said hurriedly, drawing from her mind. His cheeks were flushed. “I think you’ve got it. You seem—you’ve got it.”

“Are you sure?” she said rather dryly. “Or would you like me to practice again? Maybe a dozen more times?”

She regretted her tone immediately. Regulus’s shoulders slumped, and he let out an enormous sigh.

“Sorry,” she said, reaching for him.

His hands caught onto hers. “I can’t help it,” he told her softly, threading his fingers through hers. “I have every faith in you, Grace…but I can’t stop worrying.”

She melted, and drew herself close to him again. “You know you can write me on the sheet whenever you want.” They had made a new batch of spellbound sheets precisely for the upcoming holiday. “You can write me whenever you get worried, and I’ll remind you not to be, okay?”

He smiled. “Alright,” he agreed. He lifted his hands away from hers. His slim fingers brushed away her tousled hair, sweeping over her ear, under her jaw. His eyes burned into hers. “I wish we could just stay here forever. I wish we didn’t have to…”

The unspoken want hung heavy in the air. Grace knew what he wanted—for the safety of the Room to bleed into the real world. She found herself leaning further into him.

“I suppose we could stay here forever. It’d be awful boring, though…”

He laughed at that, and swooped down and pressed a blistering kiss against her lips. It was like trailing fire, and Grace was ready to be devoured. She pulled him closer, deepened the kiss, nipped at him hungrily.

After what might have been a minute or a millennium, she pulled away reluctantly. Her hand rose to trace the smooth lines of his cheek. Regulus’s eyes were wide and dazed.

“We have to head back before our dorm-mates get suspicious,” she told him.

“In a bit,” he said, and kissed her again—and again, and again.

Grace smiled against his lips. “Reg…”

“Last one,” he promised, but it never was.

* * *

“I like this rune the most,” Sophia chattered. She thrust her papers in Ophelia’s face. “_Kaal_—yesterday and tomorrow. I think it’s nice that a word can capture two different concepts all at once. I wish we could stack two of them on top of each other and make _today_. I think that’d make it even better.”

Ophelia skimmed through the papers. “It’s a nice one,” she agreed, “until you have to start translating texts that use it. Then you’ll start hating it, because you can never quite say for certain if it’s supposed to be yesterday or tomorrow.”

“Oh, I could _never_ hate—”

“Merlin’s beard! Are we going to spend this whole train ride talking about runes?” Grace finally let out.

She was lounging across from Ophelia and Sophia. The first half of the ride had been spent introducing the two to one another and watching with mild amusement as Ophelia attempted to put a stop to Sophia’s endless rambling. Unfortunately for Grace, the two soon realized they had a common ground in runes, and had been going at it for nearly twenty minutes now.

“Can we?” Sophia asked with clear excitement. “I have so many more runes that I like. There’s the one for water—_guan_—and it’s got this half-curve to it, which I just love, because it shows that it’s related to the moon rune—”

Grace bit back a groan, and buried her face in her hands.

“Well, what do _you_ want to talk about?” Ophelia cut in.

“I dunno. Anything but this.” Grace’s eyes flickered between the two girls. “Do either of you listen to the Hobgoblins?”

Ophelia’s lips curled in revulsion. “Do you actually enjoy that cacophony of noise?”

“Who are the Hobgoblins?” Sophia asked.

“Oh, Merlin,” Grace sighed.

“Aren’t hobgoblins like little trolls?” Sophia continued, brows knitted together in confusion. “Why would you listen to them?”

“They’re an awful, disgraceful band,” Ophelia told the younger girl imperiously. “I wouldn’t listen to them if they were the last group of musicians on this planet—”

“Oi,” Grace said in protest. “I know their last album wasn’t very good, but their earlier work—”

“Was _clearly_ taken from Lynford Stettle’s old recordings. The Hobgoblins _steal_ music—”

“Who the _fuck_ is Lynford Stettle?!”

The argument came to a halt once the compartment door was ripped open. Standing at the threshold was Preston, Golightly, and Green. The boys wavered in the doorway.

“Oh—er—hello, Potter,” Preston acknowledged.

Grace raised a brow at the trio. Before she could say anything, Sophia huffed and said, “What do _you_ want?”

“We wanted to borrow you,” Golightly said matter-of-factly. “Your Bat-Bogey is ace, Hornby. We want you to use it on Snyde while we steal all the treats he bought from the trolley lady.”

“You want to do what?” Ophelia said briskly.

Green gulped when he caught sight of her Prefect badge. “Uh—nothing—”

“Oh, come off it, Ophelia,” Grace sighed, kicking back and leaning against the window. “You know Snyde probably deserves it.”

Preston nodded in agreement. “We’re acting on the behalf of karma. Merlin knows Synde doesn’t _deserve_ to eat those sweets.”

Grace snorted.

“I’ll pretend I _didn’t_ hear that,” Ophelia said pointedly, turning away from the trio.

“Well?” Golightly demanded, rounding on Sophia. “What do you say, Hornby? We’ll split the profits with you.”

She glanced at him suspiciously. “I want half.”

“_Half_—” Golightly wheezed.

“Alright,” Green agreed instantly.

“What!” Preston said, staring incredulously at his friend. “That means we only have the other half to split amongst ourselves.”

“It’s Sophia,” was all Green said.

Preston deflated. “Alright. Fine.” He looked at Sophia. “Will you help?”

She pursed her lips and surveyed the trio of Gryffindors. Finally, she let out an exasperated breath and nodded. A grin broke across all three boys’ faces. They hurried dashed out of the compartment, beckoning Sophia to follow them down to the end of the train car.

Sophia turned to Grace and Ophelia and said with the exasperated tone of someone who had simply been called away to a meeting, “Sorry. I’ll just be a minute.”

With that, she swiftly left the compartment with her three Gryffindor compatriots. From just beyond the flimsy door, Grace could hear Sophia chiding Green on the state of his robes.

“Were you raised in a _barn_?” she scolded. “Don’t you iron your robes?”

“Er—no…?”

“You lot are hopeless.”

Grace stifled her laugh.

“You know,” Ophelia began, “I think she could probably take over the world with those three at her beck and call.”

“The Ministry ought to recruit them. I think Sophia could probably scold You-Know-Who into submission.”

Ophelia snorted. The rest of the train ride passed swiftly with more banter (and a few heated debates about whether or not the Hobgoblins had, in fact, lifted their entire discography from the little-known Lynford Stettle). Before Grace knew it, evening had cut through the sky and the train had come to a stop. She burst through the cloud of smoke and steam that surrounded the platform, trunk scraping along the floor besides her. She searched through the crowds busily, trying to spot James’s tall frame, his unruly mop of dark hair. Instead, she found only Lily—alone and slumped by a pillar. Her crimson hair was tied back into a loose, messy bun. Her hands fidgeted against one another.

A crushing dismay swept over Grace. Had she succeeded that well in pushing away James? To the point he wouldn’t even come pick her up for holiday?

She shuffled over to Lily. “Er—hello…?”

Lily’s head snapped up. She relaxed as she caught sight of Grace. “Finally,” she breathed. “Come on, we’ve got to head to St. Mungo’s—”

Grace stared at her. “Wait, what? I have all my stuff with me. Can’t we—wait…” James wasn’t here, and they had to go to St. Mungo’s? A dreadful fear clawed at her belly. “What happened? Where’s James?”

Lily’s face was tight. “It’s—he’s at St. Mungo’s with your parents. The—the winterbloom came in this morning—” her voice was trembling, caught on the edge of some steep precipice, “—and it didn’t take.”

Grace’s chest felt hot and clustered. “What?” she breathed. “But it was supposed to… I don’t…”

Lily extended a hand. “Come on. We’ll Apparate to St. Mungo’s. James is there. He’ll explain.”

Grace didn’t want him to. She didn’t want to hear about how severely, how intensely they had failed. She felt Lily’s hand wrap around her own. The atmosphere twisted around them. Grace’s head felt as if it was being squeezed and stretched at the same time. Her heart hammered relentlessly against her chest. Despite the fact that she had not yet opened her Inner Eye and could in no way be sure about this, she was almost certain that something terrible was coming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The balance of emotions in this chapter might be all over the place, but I did want to highlight the fact that even though Grace and Regulus are doing this big plan to save themselves and the wizarding world at large, they are still literally seventeen years old and are equally eager to explore their new relationship with each other. (And I also wanted to give them a few moments of happiness with each other since shit is very shortly going to hit the fan.)
> 
> Thank you all for reading, leaving kudos, and commenting! It means the world to me that you’re engaging with this story. Please keep letting me know your thoughts! :)


	10. Obsidian

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The impossible happens, and the world stands still. Then, it shatters into a million pieces.

“—AND WHAT I DON’T UNDERSTAND IS WHY IT TOOK SO LONG!” James’s voice thundered across the second floor of St. Mungo’s. His wand was clenched tight in his left hand while his right angrily shoved at the bumbling Healer in front of him. “YOU TOLD ME IT WAS SUPPOSED—”

“James!” Lily cried out, aghast. She ripped herself away from Grace and hurtled towards her husband. “James, what on _earth_ are you—”

There was a crowd of curious patients gathering by the Dragon Pox ward. Healers were frantically shoving their way through, trying to move things along. James’s voice cracked and dropped once he caught sight of Lily. He stuffed his wand away roughly, but his furious gaze didn’t lift from the trembling Healer in front of him.

“I’ve had it with your holier-than-thou attitude,” James spat. “I want a new Healer for my parents. _Immediately_.”

Healer Jenkins muttered something, and promptly fled from sight, light green robes fluttering behind him. James swallowed thickly before shrugging away from the ward entirely, collapsing into the waiting area. Lily followed him at a fast pace.

“What were you thinking?” she demanded.

He stared at her, the hard lines of his face caving in. “I wasn’t,” he admitted after a moment.

Grace stood off to the side, her trunk at her feet. She had never seen James so full of rage. He seemed almost unrecognizable. Her heart battered against her chest relentlessly. She felt breathless all of a sudden, as though she had been screaming right alongside him.

“Oh, Lily brought you straight from the platform?”

Her head snapped to the side, and she soured as she caught sight of Sirius. He appeared just as worn as James. His long hair was hastily put up, and his eyes were rimmed with dark circles. In both of his hands were steaming cups of tea.

“Yeah. Do you—er—know what happened?” She glanced unsurely at James, and then at the doors to the ward.

“Don’t really know the specifics,” he shrugged. “Just that that git of a Healer got what was coming. James figured the winterbloom would have worked if it had gotten here sooner, but Jenkins wasn’t on top of it.”

She frowned tightly. Fury slithered into her chest. If it turned out Mum and Dad had lost their chance, if their condition worsened because of one stupid Healer’s incompetency—then Grace didn’t know _what_ she’d do. She could understand James’s screaming fit. She would have done the same. She might have done worse.

“I was just dropping by,” Sirius continued. “After you check in with James and your parents, I can Apparate you back to the cottage to put away your things, if you want. I doubt James will want to leave, and I don’t think Lily will want to leave him out of her sight after what she just saw.”

“Er—is Remus around? Or Peter?” She’d rather not have Sirius escort her home if she could help it. He’d spend the time rambling about James or himself or both.

“Peter’s at work and Remus is away.”

“Away?”

“Yeah—out of the country.”

“What? Why? Did something happen?”

Sirius seemed to regret saying anything at all. “Er—I dunno,” he said, and began to walk away from her speedily. The tea in the mugs sloshed against the rims precariously.

“What do you mean you don’t know?” Grace said incredulously. She knew Remus and Sirius’s relationship was fraught, but had it really gotten so bad that one didn’t even know why the other had suddenly just left the country?

Sirius ignored her completely. “James,” he greeted, holding out one of the cups. “Let’s get some tea in you, mate.”

James numbly reached for the mug. His hands curled around the porcelain, but he didn’t lift it to his lips, choosing, instead, to stare blankly into the white floor.

Sirius silently handed the other cup to Lily and sat down beside James. “Is there anything else I can do?” he asked.

James glanced at him. “How do you feel about murder?” he asked, voice completely devoid of humor.

“No offense, but I don’t think one Healer is worth twenty years in Azkaban.” Sirius clapped him on the back. “Come on—drink up that tea. I can get you a scone to go down with it—”

James shook his head. “No, that’s okay. Thanks.”

“Anytime.” The stubborn cheer in Sirius’s eyes died away as he took in his friend. “James—if you want to go home and take a nap or something, it’ll be fine. I’ll stay here and watch over—”

“No,” he cut in harshly. “No—I’m not—I can’t leave.”

“Right…”

“James,” Lily interceded softly. “You _do_ need some rest. Look—Grace is here. She can watch over Effie and Monty instead if that makes you feel better.”

James lifted his head up sluggishly and caught onto Grace’s slight form. He didn’t seem the least bit thrilled to see her, and Grace couldn’t find it in herself to fault him for that. She had been ragging on him for the past few weeks.

She shifted uneasily under his weary gaze. “Actually,” she began, “I think I’ll head home to drop my stuff off first.”

For all the insults she had thrown his way, James had not yet snapped back at her. But after witnessing his tiff with Healer Jenkins, Grace was beginning to think his patience was wearing thin. The atmosphere of the ward was delicate. She didn’t want to upset anything.

As it turned out, she didn’t need to. James was more than willing to start the fight this time around.

“Oh, really?” he said, voice as bitter and prickly as thistle. “What happened to spending time with Mum and Dad so they’re not lonely?”

Her throat was tight. She couldn’t find the strength to meet his harsh gaze. “I’ll only be a moment,” she said. “I can’t drag this trunk around all day.”

His eyes flitted over her for a moment before retreating. “Whatever,” he said under his breath.

Sirius was staring between the two of them, wide-eyed. He opened his mouth, about to speak, when Lily shot him a warning glare. His lips stitched shut, but his eyes continued to shine with unabashed concern.

“Have you—have you spoken to them yet?” Grace hedged. “About the winterbloom?”

James’s eyes flickered shut. He didn’t say anything for a long moment. Just as Grace was beginning to think he was trying to ignore her, he said, “Yes.”

“Oh.” A terrible wave of nausea was crawling through her. Heat overwhelmed her. She thought she might puke. “What did—I mean—” she bit down on her lower lip and took a couple of flimsy breaths. “Are they okay?”

He stood up abruptly. The piping hot tea in his cup flew over the rim, splashing over his wrist and hand. Lily’s eyes nearly bugged out of her head. She fumbled around for her wand, but James barely noticed the blistering skin.

“You can ask them yourself,” he told Grace flatly, and promptly turned on his heel, heading back towards the ward.

Grace stared after him, helpless. She knew this was coming. She knew this was what she and Regulus had been planning for. But the knowledge did little to ease the sting in her heart, the sear of her eyes. Turmoil seated itself deep in her stomach. Between her parent’s unlikely prognosis and James’s standoffishness—what did she have left?

Sirius cleared his throat awkwardly and rose from his seat. “Er—let’s get you to the cottage, eh?”

She shrugged away from him. “I know how to Apparate,” she mumbled. “I can go by myself.”

“Not at the moment,” Lily said. “There are anti-Apparition wards set up all over Godric’s Hollow. Sirius will have to Apparate you to a specific corner of town, and you can walk to the cottage from there.” She gave her a sympathetic half-smile, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “You’re free to go yourself whenever you want after Sirius shows you the spot.”

“Yeah, alright,” Grace said tonelessly. She grabbed onto the handle of her trunk and extended a hand to Sirius. “Let’s just go.”

He took her hand in his own. The atmosphere twisted around them, warping around their bodies. With an audible _pop!_ they disappeared from the enormous waiting area of St. Mungo’s and re-appeared in a crop of wild hydrangea. Grace pulled herself away from Sirius and surveyed the area.

They had landed in an alcove by the village square. She could just make out the broad, copper statue of the founder of Godric’s Hollow. She stepped out of the flurry of brightly-colored flowers, ignoring the ringing in her ears as her body adjusted to the sudden transportation.

“Shall we?” Sirius said, gesturing to his right, where the trail to the Potter cottage started.

Grace stubbornly dragged her trunk along the dirt path. She hoped Sirius wouldn’t puncture the sweet silence with conversation. But, of course, Sirius lived to disappoint her, because scarcely a minute into their trek, he said, “So—how’s Hogwarts been? Filch still running amok, is he?”

She gave him a withering glance, which he pointedly ignored. “It’s okay,” she grunted.

“Good to hear, good to hear.” He nodded absently. “I heard Vance is teaching Defense. How has she been?”

“Rubbish.”

He snorted. “Lovely—I’ll tell her that next time I see her in the Auror Office.”

“I mean—” Grace said hastily, “—_she’s_ not rubbish. The class is. We haven’t learned anything except the Patronus Charm.”

“I’d say that’s probably the most useful spell to learn at the moment.” His voice had morphed from light-hearted to solemn. It wasn’t a tone Sirius often used, and hearing it made Grace feel even more uncomfortable.

The world seemed out of sorts. Her parents were confined to St. Mungo’s instead of her. James was surly instead of upbeat. Lily’s kindness seemed to have been exhausted. Remus was conspicuously absent. And Sirius was, well, _serious_.

“You don’t have to walk with me,” Grace said.

“Ah, that’s where you’re wrong, Puny Potter. I absolutely _do_ have to walk with you. James would kill me if I let you run off alone. We’ve got the wards up for a reason, after all.”

“I don’t think James would particularly care if I ran off.” The words flew out of her mouth without her realizing it.

Sirius’s brows rose. “I think he’s just overwhelmed,” he said softly. “We all are. He’s mentioned you’ve been rather whingy, too. It’s just…how it is at the moment. I don’t think anyone’s to blame for it. He’ll probably come to his senses in a few days and apologize. You should, too.”

_Merlin, when’d he get so bloody wise?_ Grace thought viciously. She opted to keep her mouth shut as they traveled the rest of the distance to the Potter cottage.

The house was in such a dismal state that Grace hardly recognized it. Mum’s garden, which she had tended to so carefully, was withered and wilted. The patch of fluxweed seemed little more than cracked, brittle grass. The jasmine that encircled the house sagged towards the earth. Shriveled white petals littered the dark soil. Even the tall hornbeam tree in the backyard seemed to be drooping more than usual.

Grace made her way to the front door and pushed her way into the house. It was cold, which she supposed made sense. There was no one there, no bodies to give off heat, no laughs to warm the air. She padded inside, each footfall echoing through the dim and empty house, and set her trunk down in the living area.

Her eyes skimmed over the room. The windows were closed and curtained, leaving little light. One of Mum’s novels had been left on the coffee table, spine crushed against the smooth wood, pages splayed out. She must have been reading it when she collapsed that day.

Grace turned away abruptly, stalking back towards the door. She slammed it shut behind her, and didn’t bother waiting for Sirius as she dashed away from the house. St. Mungo’s seemed more of a home than the Potter cottage did at the moment.

“Hold on—!” Sirius wheezed as he caught up. “Merlin—where’s the fire?”

“I just want to get back to Mum and Dad.” She just wanted to get away from here.

“You will,” Sirius promised.

Grace’s stride lost energy, and she soon found herself slowing, much to her chagrin. Sirius followed at her side leisurely, hands stuffed into the pockets of his Muggle jeans. A light breeze picked up, whipping loose strands of his dark hair about.

“Can I ask you something?” he said as they neared the village square.

“You just did,” she bit.

Sirius disregarded the jibe. “Have you seen much of Regulus lately?”

The question was so unexpected, Grace actually stopped mid-stride. “What?”

“Regulus,” Sirius repeated. He was studying her carefully, grey eyes sharp and calculating. “How is he?”

“I—he seems okay.” She tried to shrug off the question and picked up her pace.

“Seems?” Sirius questioned. “You haven’t been talking to him?”

“Why do you care about him all of a sudden?” she snapped.

“It’s not him I’m worried about. I just have some…suspicions that he might be…”

Ice flooded her veins. She struggled not to look at Sirius. “That he might be what?”

He shook his head. “Nevermind. It doesn’t matter. Not now, at least. We can talk about it once Effie and Monty get better.”

And despite all the resentment she harbored for Sirius, despite the worry seeping through her, she found herself overcome by a flash of appreciation. _Once Effie and Monty get better_. Not if—_once_. She had forgotten how resolute Sirius could be, how cocksure. Grace would be lying if she said her family didn’t need some of that dogged will at the moment.

* * *

She was huddled in the tea shop on the top floor of St. Mungo’s. The tiny café had become something of a refuge over the past few days. Few visitors passed through the door, and the barista took so many breaks he was hardly ever by the counter. It was the perfect place for Grace to sulk.

She had sat by her parent’s bedside earlier that day, along with James, but the atmosphere was so stilted and sullen that she found she couldn’t quite stomach the stay. Dad’s throat had closed in completely, leaving him without the ability to speak. Despite this, he still made the effort to rasp out a few words now and again. (_James_, he had managed to cough out after countless tries. _Grace_. His eyes had been so light and happy when he succeeded in saying their names out loud, one might have thought he was learning to speak for the first time.) Grace wished he’d save his energy, but he wanted so desperately to tell his children not to worry, that he loved them, that everything would be okay in the end.

And Grace wanted to believe him, she really did. But there was this niggling doubt in the back of her head, this horrible fear festering in the pit of her heart. She needed to be sure. She needed to be certain that everything really would be okay in the end.

She passed her tarot cards between her hands, shuffling through them messily, fingers frantic. _Will they get better?_ she thought viciously as she flicked through card after card. _Tell me they’ll get better. Show me they’ll get better_. She knew these cards like the back of her hand. She had studied them for six long years. She knew each picture like she knew the lines of her palms. And yet, somehow, she still held onto the wild hope that one of these cards would, impossibly, show her parents back at the Potter cottage: Mum snuggled into the armchair by the hearth, finishing her novel, while Dad ambled about the house looking for a missing sock.

The first card landed in the center of the wooden table. It was the three of swords; the shining silver blades were plunged into one large beating heart. A tempest raged on in the background.

“Suffering and heartbreak,” Grace noted quietly, and took the next card from the pile.

The second card was the five of wands. There was an uneven split of wizards in the image, three against two, dueling it out over a desert. Grace frowned as she traced over the image. This card was meant to show the path the previous one led to. But how could her parent’s suffering lead to battle?

She took the last card and laid it against the previous two. It was the chariot but reversed. While normally the chariot was meant to symbolize direction and control—the whole world in the palm of your hands—the reverse meant the exact opposite. The card was telling her that after the hardship and the battle came chaos.

Grace’s stomach churned at the sight. This wasn’t what she wanted to see. She wasn’t even sure what it was she was seeing. It didn’t quite make sense.

She pushed the cards away, letting the deck spill over the table, and promptly began to fish around in her bag for her half of the spellbound sheets. Regulus was her only source of conversation these past few days since James was pointedly ignoring her and her parents were too tired to speak for more than a few minutes at a time.

She smoothed the sheet out on the table, frowning as she read the message Regulus had sent: _Bellatrix wants to meet the day before we return to Hogwarts. Can you meet at the Leaky Cauldron then?_

She scrambled around for her quill and inkpot. _Here’s the bad news_, she scribbled rapidly. _I can’t really get away from James and Lily, seeing as we’ve now made a semi-permanent home out of St. Mungo’s_.

Regulus’s reply came within seconds: _Is there any good news?_

She thought about it. _No_.

_How are you feeling? Are you okay?_

She needed a moment to answer that. She fidgeted with the quill in her hands. The truth was she wasn’t okay, and she didn’t particularly feel like meeting the deranged Bellatrix Lestrange, whether it be one week from now or one decade. But she had a plan to follow through with. She had a world to help save—a world that went on spinning even as her parents lay in their hospital cots.

_I’m fine_, Grace wrote after a minute.

Evidently, Regulus did not buy the small lie, because ink bled through the paper quickly. _Are you sure?_ _Grace, I can try to convince Bellatrix to postpone the meeting. I don’t want to overburden you with anything. You’ve got to take care of yourself, too, and—_

She never got to finish reading the small novel of comfort Regulus was penning, because the chimes above the café door tinkled. Grace hastily folded away her sheet and stuffed into her bag.

“Oh, I didn’t realize you were here,” a pleasant voice said.

Grace looked up. “Remus?” she said in disbelief as the tall, sandy-haired man walked further inside. He looked much the same—still shabby, still a bit ragged. There was a wan smile on his face. “What—I thought—Sirius said you were out of the country!”

He raised a brow. “Out of the country? I don’t think so. I was only up north for a bit.”

“North? What for?”

“Just visiting some relatives.” He strolled over and took the seat opposite hers. “I didn’t realize James had convinced you to camp out in St. Mungo’s along with him.”

Her shoulders dropped at the mention of James. She picked at one of the cards on the table—the six of swords—and bent the edges of it. “Where else would I go?” she said. “Everyone’s here.”

The lighthearted air Remus had carried with him vanished. “Right,” he murmured. “I won’t—er—heap that drivel about being strong and whatnot onto you. You’ve probably heard enough of it.”

“Yeah.” She folded the card clean in half. The center of it frayed from the strain. “It’s not looking so good.”

“James said something similar.” His olive green eyes flickered over her. “How are you feeling?”

She shrugged halfheartedly. “Someone put up a Christmas tree in the waiting area. That was a little irritating.”

“Shall I set it on fire for you?”

The corners of her lips twitched. “Are you allowed to do that?”

“Oh, definitely not. But if it’s irritating, we should do something about it. Power lies in the people, after all.”

The thought of committing arson _was_ rather tempting. “Alright, then let’s—”

The chimes rang once more, and Grace’s mouth snapped shut as she saw James, Lily, Sirius, and Peter shuffle inside. She immediately began to gather her cards, pooling them into her bag.

Remus stood up, eyeing her with concern. “What are you—?”

“Oh, Grace,” Lily said, catching sight of her. Grace could tell the redhead wasn’t particularly pleased to find her here, but she’d never say anything out loud. “I thought you were in the ward.”

Grace stood up. “I’m heading there right now.”

“Why don’t you stay for some tea first?” Remus suggested. He glanced over at the counter and frowned when he saw no one was there. “Er—if we can manage to find the barista, that is.”

“I’m fine,” Grace said, side-stepping him. She glanced briefly at James, but his attention was directed stonily ahead. “I’ll—er—see you in a bit.”

She couldn’t find the strength to pull James into a heated row, not now, not when Mum and Dad were clinging to life. So, she had decided to settle with the frosty silence James had created the first day she arrived at St. Mungo’s for holiday. She figured it was practically the same; anyone who saw them interact would assume the two weren’t close.

Grace stepped out of the shop. Just as she passed by the window, she heard Sirius exclaim, “Thank Merlin! I actually thought she’d take you up on the tea for a moment, Moony.”

She stilled by the window, back flush against the wall. Did they always talk about her when they were alone?

“What are you talking about?” came Remus’s voice.

“Sirius!” Lily scolded at the same time.

“Oh, come on,” Sirius said. She heard the scrape of a chair as he took a seat. His voice came louder, presumably because he had chosen a table right by the window. Grace slid down against the wall and scrambled underneath the wide window, straining her ears. It helped that Sirius spoke at three times the volume someone normally would. “You were thinking it, too, Lily. She’s been unbearable since she came back.”

“I think that’s probably understandable given both her parents have Dragon Pox,” Remus said coldly.

“No offense, but you only just got here,” Sirius scowled. “She’s been acting weird. James knows what I’m talking about—right, mate?”

James sighed. “I dunno… She’s just been a bit rude is all. I’m just trying to ignore it.”

“You should talk to her,” Sirius said. “I feel like you ignoring her has made things worse. Every time you two are in the same room, it’s like the temperature goes down twenty degrees.”

“I’d be more than willing to talk if Grace would be open to actually _listening_.”

“She’ll listen if you give her a reason to,” Peter piped in, voice reedy.

“I don’t know about that,” Lily sighed. “I’ve already asked her to temper it down a bit.”

“You did what?” Surprise colored James’s voice. “Lily—I know you only have the best intentions, but now’s really not the time to dish out lectures. Grace has always been closer to our parents. They’ve mollycoddled her since the minute she was born. Of course she’d get… Into whatever mood it is she’s getting into.”

Grace’s brows furrowed. _She_ wasn’t the one who’d been mollycoddled since birth; _James_ was. James had always been closer to Mum and Dad. He’d write them letters every day he was at Hogwarts. And, in turn, he’d get all the broomsticks and rubbish owls his heart desired.

“I—” Lily faltered. “I understand that. I just don’t like that she takes it out on us. We’re dealing with enough as it is.”

“Hold on,” Remus said. “What exactly is the problem? I was just talking to Grace, and she seemed fine.”

An uncomfortable silence followed. Grace fidgeted under the window. Her scalp brushed against the sill. She wanted to get up and leave, but she couldn’t. She had to know where this conversation was leading.

“She’s just…made some very pointed remarks now and then,” Lily said rather diplomatically.

“Like what?” Remus pressed.

“Like about how I’m a terrible son and a failure of an Auror and don’t deserve any of the love I’ve been given,” James said flatly.

“I—_what_?” Remus sputtered out.

“She was a bit more subtle than that,” Lily said dryly. “But that is the gist, yes.”

“Merlin…” Remus breathed. “Has something happened to her? Other than the obvious, of course.”

“I’ve got a theory,” Sirius announced very loudly.

“Oh, God,” Lily groaned. “Not again.”

“What is it?” Remus and Peter chorused together.

“I think she might be spending a bit too much time with her Slytherin—er—_friends_, shall we call them?” Sirius said. “Before, we were always around to act as a buffer against all the negative influence in Hogwarts, but now she’s on her own in there.”

“That doesn’t make sense,” Lily sighed. “We weren’t that much of a buffer. She still hung out with her Slytherin friends while we were at Hogwarts.”

“It’s different this year.”

“How so?”

“Well—” Sirius trilled, “—I asked her about Reg, and she got spooked. I think she knows.”

“Knows…?” Remus said.

“That he’s a Death Eater.” Sirius said the words so easily, without even the slightest bit of doubt.

Lily groaned. Remus scoffed. Peter let out a small, terrified squeak. Grace felt her very soul lift from her body. She raised a trembling hand and pressed it against her forehead. How long had he known? How come he hadn’t said anything? Did Sirius know about any of the other Death Eaters? Worse, still—did he suspect her of becoming one?

“Now hold on,” Remus protested. “Caradoc wasn’t sure if that was your brother. And we never got to follow up since he…you know.”

“I don’t doubt that it’s Regulus,” Sirius said resolutely. “He was probably bullied into joining by our mother. It wouldn’t surprise me. And I reckon if he’s joined Lord Voldeprat, there must have been others in Hogwarts who have, too.”

“Other _students_?” Remus said with blatant disbelief. “Literal _seventeen year olds_?”

“That does sound dodgy,” Peter threw in.

“Is it really so far-fetched? _We_ were eighteen when Dumbledore had us join the Order,” Sirius countered. “Here’s what I reckon: Grace has been spending too much time in that infernal snake pit, and now her brain’s all addled.”

James was shaking his head. His silhouette warbled against the frosty glass. “I know Grace has been harsh recently, but there’s no way she’d be daft enough to fall for any of the rubbish Slytherins say.”

“Mate, I’m not saying she’s going and joining the other side. I’m just saying she’s probably picked up some nasty habits—”

James’s chair screeched against the floor abruptly. “I’m not going to sit here and listen to this thought experiment, Padfoot. Not now.” Silence swelled between the four of them. Grace’s heart thudded against her chest painfully. “The barista’s probably in the back, right?” James’s footsteps were receding. “I really need a cuppa…”

“I’ll help!” Peter offered, scrambling away and following after James.

Lily let out a lengthy sigh as the two men wandered further and further into the tea shop.

“Yes?” Sirius said pointedly. “Something you’d like to share with the class, Evans?”

“There doesn’t need to be some grand reason all the time,” Lily said quietly. “I don’t want to make excuses for her, but…I can understand if she’s lashing out because that’s the only way she knows how to deal with all her stress.”

“This could be a repeat of that time she dueled Aubrey on James’s behalf,” Remus pointed out. “She’s never been one to keep her emotions in check. I’m sure she’ll come to her senses soon.”

“If she apologizes, I’ll forgive her. James will, too,” Lily agreed.

“Something just seems off,” Sirius muttered after a moment. “I’m just worried is all.”

“We all are,” Lily said softly.

* * *

Mum had fallen asleep a while ago, one of her rash-red hands clasped tightly in both of Grace’s. Grace was huddled at the foot of the cot, chin resting on her pulled-up knees. She didn’t quite know what to do anymore. The hours were moving so slowly, and after overhearing the conversation in the tea shop, Grace decided that seeking James, Lily, Sirius, or Remus for anything at all would be a bad idea. It would be best to avoid them completely.

Grace sighed softly, rolling her head to the side, letting her cheek squash against her knees. The ward was quiet, save for a few coughs and wheezes puncturing the air now and again. Someone had decided to cheer up the patients by stringing some baubles from the ceiling; silver, gold, and crimson ornaments twirled from above, glinting under the white light of the ward. Grace found them to be more of an eyesore than anything.

“Er—hey?”

Grace’s head snapped up. Her spine snapped into something rigid and tight when she saw James lingering just beyond the curtains. She turned away sharply, ducking towards her mother’s sleeping form. Her loose hair fell over her shoulder, hiding her.

“What?” she muttered.

“I need to talk to you. It’ll only be a minute.” He disappeared behind the curtains. She could hear his feet padding against the tiles, growing fainter and fainter until they stopped just at the threshold of the ward doors.

Grace bit the inside of her cheek. She cast one long look at Mum, who was snoring away gently, before tenderly peeling her hands away and getting up. James had made a huge effort not to approach her these past few days, so his sudden invitation had her feeling rather wary. What if Sirius had finally convinced James of his ‘theory’?

She skirted around the cots and found James pacing by the double doors. He stilled once he caught sight of her, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Look,” he sighed once she was near enough. “I don’t know what I’ve done, if I’ve done anything at all. I don’t know what it is you’re angry about. But could you please just set it aside for—for—a _moment_? At least _here_? For Mum and Dad?”

She frowned at him. She had already set it all aside. She had barely said a word to James since she arrived at St. Mungo’s. It was James who seemed reluctant to let go of everything Grace had said weeks and weeks ago. It was James who had drawn away—and much faster and sharper than she had expected. It was James who had fed Grace the stinging slap of neglect.

“Will you set down whatever mood _you’ve_ gotten into?” she spat. “Or are you going to continue playing hide-and-seek like a child?”

She hadn’t meant for it to come out so sharp. Guilt and grief pricked her heart in an instant. Perhaps she had been pretending for too long. It had been so easy to slip into the role in the beginning. She lived to irritate James. She knew exactly how to do it. _You’re so full of yourself, James. Can’t you take anything seriously? This is your fault. You were supposed to look after them. I blame you._ They were all lies, of course. But you could only say a lie so many times before starting to believe it. You could only say _I hate you, I hate you, I hate you_ so many times before that loathing slithered into you. And she had said it so many times—to Regulus when they were practicing and to herself in the mirror and in her dreams, even. It was like a chant now, a thrum in her bones, a beat in her heart.

She wanted to stop this. They were distant enough now—or so she hoped. She couldn’t find it in herself to particularly care if Bellatrix would be convinced by her charade or not. At this moment, there was only James. There was only this terrible reality.

She wanted to be softer, but she didn’t know how.

The patient, resigned look on his face slipped away in an instant. The lines of his face were taut and harsh. “_I’m_ the one hiding? When it’s _you_ who keeps running away when Lily or I come near?”

“Oh, please,” she muttered. “As if either of you wanted me around.”

He stared at her, the gold of his eyes as hot as fire. “What’s happened to you?”

What’s happened to her? She wanted to laugh at the question. She wanted to scream at him. So _much_ had happened. She had been left to fend for herself in a school where few to none of her friends remained. Her parents were confined to bed with a disease that was slowly but surely sucking the very life out of them. Her best friend was currently trying to maneuver his way around Death Eaters so their plan could be put into motion. All this while James refused to write her letters longer than a sentence or two, while he gallivanted off with Dumbledore’s stupid Order in the night, while he pointedly ignored her in the waiting area of St. Mungo’s.

And, suddenly, he decided that it was time to put it all aside? Suddenly, he thought to amble over and ask that she stop what she had already stopped? Didn’t he know how cold that distance had felt? How cutting it had been—like ice piercing through her chest.

“You don’t understand,” she began, voice choked, “how hard it’s been at Hogwarts these past few months. You wouldn’t even begin to understand. It’s been really, really rough—”

James’s brows had risen so far up that they seemed on the verge of taking off from his forehead entirely. “Don’t even _think_ of saying you’ve got it rough. What is it that you’re dealing with, exactly? Is McGonagall giving you a hard time in Transfiguration? Has Flitwick been assigning too many essays?”

Her nostrils flared. “You utter _prat_—”

“I’ve been risking my bloody neck every other night on behalf of the continent,” James plowed on. “I’ve been ferrying friends to safe houses and dueling Death Eaters for the past six months, and you have the _gall_ to tell me _you’ve_ got it _rough_?”

She was trying. She really was. She was trying to tell him without telling him, trying to let him into the narrow crack of her heart, trying to get him to understand that she hadn’t quite meant it, trying to show him that this plan of hers was awful, that she wanted him close again. And here he was, throwing her words back into her face. It almost reminded her of herself.

“You’re so—” She struggled to get the words out. Her throat was tight. Her eyes seared. “Fuck, James—it’s not always about _you_, you know—”

“And it’s not always about _you_! Merlin, what will it take for you to stop being so bloody conceited all the time—”

“You’re one to speak! Here I am, trying to apologize—”

“If you think _that_ was an apology, then you really need to get your brain looked at—”

“—and you won’t even listen to me! You won’t even consider—”

“Oh, _do_ tell all the things _I’m_ not considering. Please, Grace, I’m really just aching to hear how _rough_ everything has been for you back at Hogwarts!”

Her jaw was stiff. Her hands were balled into two tight fists. “It’s been—you’re just so—sometimes, I really, really _hate_ you, James!”

In the quiet of the ward, her voice seemed enormous. They had flung that word—_hate_—at each other before, but never like this. Never like one of them actually believed it.

“Yeah?” he bit. “Well, the feeling’s quite mutual at the moment.”

This wasn’t the argument Grace had been planning for. This wasn’t what she had been veering towards these past few weeks. This was all too real. This wasn’t born of plans or pretend. This was from the heart—and it struck her to her very core. Her chest caved inward. Her eyes stung viciously.

“James…?” Mum croaked sleepily just a few cots down. “Grace…? What’s happening…?”

They couldn’t lift their stare from one another. James continued to glare at her as if his very life depended on it—cheeks burning, eyes damp, chin trembling.

“Nothing, Mum,” he called back. His voice echoed through the ward.

Grace swallowed thickly and pushed past him, barreling through the double doors. Her eyes stung with hot tears, but she refused to let them fall. She refused to release the sob that burned through her chest. The white corridors of the hospital blurred past her, patients and Healers streaming by. Her fingers clawed at the hem of her sleeves. Some part of her was aching to unravel, to collapse onto the floor and let the world swallow her whole.

She knew she was in the wrong, too. She had started all of this, but she had been doing it all for a reason. And when she saw how close James was to losing it, she pulled away. She didn’t want to revisit the past. There was no point. She wanted to push forward. She wanted to skip over to the next week, to the next year, to the next decade—when the war would surely be over.

She hid by the ward for permanent spell damage for what must have been hours, trying to reign in her heart, trying to understand what to do. Was her plan truly worth all this? Sirius was already certain Regulus was a Death Eater, and this was in part due to Order surveillance. What if, once she joined You-Know-Who, they found out she was a Death Eater, too? Before she could manage to convince them to employ her and Regulus as spies? James would never forgive her if he found out from someone else. He’d think she had played him for a fool. He’d think she really had joined.

By the time Grace felt calm enough to return to the Dragon Pox ward, evening had set. She wandered past the sea of closed curtains, eventually slipping into her father’s section, hoping he might be asleep.

He wasn’t.

He was eased up on his cot, positioned comfortably against a mound of pillows. In his lap was a slice of treacle tart that Sirius had likely snuck him. He glanced up when he saw Grace enter, a weak smile slipping across his lips. He beckoned her over, towards the chair.

Grace made her way over. Her hand trembled over the back of the chair. She tried to flatten out her face, hide her sour grimace and drawn brows and the unyielding damp sheen of her eyes. But Dad caught on quickly. He pushed aside his tart and edged closer to Grace, face falling.

“Grace,” he managed to croak out. It sounded awful coming from his lips—nails scraping against a chalkboard. Grace could practically hear his throat falling apart. “Okay?”

His green-tinged face was so pitiful that Grace felt her heart tear itself to pieces. Nothing was okay, and she was very much beginning to think nothing would ever be okay again. She _had_ to infiltrate the Death Eaters. It was bigger than Regulus now. James was right: he was out fighting—_really_ fighting—in the war every other night. He was risking everything for a better world. Was Grace supposed to let him have all the glory again? Where was her shining moment? She wanted to help. She wanted to save. She wanted to be more than James’s sick sister. She had always wanted to be more.

Grace pushed the chair aside and clambered over to her father’s bedside. Her knees crashed against the cold floor. Dad’s hands shot out to help catch her, but he only managed to lose himself in the momentum, too. He was clinging onto the edge of his bed, his knotted hands tangled into Grace’s, his hazel eyes stuck onto hers.

“Dad…” she whispered.

He shifted in the cot, flurried white hair blending into the linen. His eyes searched hers desperately. Grace gave his hands a light squeeze, hoping violently, against all odds, that some of the vitality in her could be transferred to him.

“Dad, I’m afraid,” she confessed after a moment.

His eyes were already damp, and so were hers. Trembling, he peeled one of his hands away from hers and placed it atop Grace’s head, patting her, comforting her even now. He shook his head. _No_, he mouthed. _No_.

“I am,” she insisted quietly. There was no point in saying otherwise. She was afraid that her parents might not have longer than a few days. She was afraid that she might not convince Bellatrix of her loyalty. She was afraid that if James found out what she was doing, if he only ever got half the story, he would hate her forever.

“If I did something horrible, would you still love me?” she asked. “If I broke your heart, would still love me?”

Her voice was so quiet, a shadow brushing the floor. It was not comfort or validation she wanted. She did not need to know if what she was doing was right or okay. That had never mattered to her before. What mattered was loyalty, was family and love. James was like their father. If Dad said yes, so would James.

Dad held her eyes. He looked as though he’d like nothing more than to swallow up her pain. _Always_, he mouthed. _Always, always…_

* * *

She was in bed when it happened. She had been dreaming of a mountain—some tall, wintry peak she was trying desperately to reach—when Lily burst into her room, crimson hair in a flurry, green eyes pricked with tears. _There was an emergency Patronus call from the Healer-on-duty_, she wept to Grace. _You have to come quick. James is already there._

She was already dashing out of bed, already running, tearing out of the dismal Potter cottage in nothing more than her nightclothes, dark hair streaming behind her, the bitter wind biting at her. She Apparated as soon as she was beyond the wards, appearing in the center of the St. Mungo’s waiting area.

She knew it was over by the time she reached the Dragon Pox ward. She knew when she saw James collapsed at the foot of their mother’s cot—conspicuously absent of its occupant. She faltered and fell right there and then. Something deep inside her fractured. Her love splintered and reassembled into something nearly unrecognizable—some terrible monster clawing at her insides. Her throat was raw. Her eyes stung.

Someone moved her aside—perhaps Lily or Remus or a Healer. They tried to do the same with James, but he screamed and sobbed and clung to his mother’s sheets like if he cried hard enough she might come back to him. _She passed on quietly_, someone tried to tell her. Hands passed over her hair tenderly. _In the night. In her sleep. She didn’t suffer._

Didn’t suffer? What about the rash that had crawled along her body? What about the coughs that wracked her lungs? What about the fevers and the tremors and the sores?

She tried to tell them. Mum _did_ suffer, but she was brave—so, so brave. Brave till the very end. She tried to proclaim this to the ward, to the whole world, but she couldn’t get the words out. She tucked them deep inside her instead.

Hours and hours later, she heard someone else: _Dead_, they whispered. Passing on the news, maybe. _She’s dead._

It didn’t sound right. It sounded impossible. _Mum’s dead_. No—that was wrong. That didn’t make sense. Those two words didn’t fit next to each other. Mum was love and light. Mum was life. It didn’t make sense for _dead_ to follow. It would never make sense.

She stayed in the ward with James, slumped by the cot. Even when her tears ran out, she cried. Even when her throat was raw and hoarse, she screamed. She wanted to waste herself into grief, wanted to unmake herself. She could not let go of her mother. She wasn’t strong enough. She remembered Mum’s warm hands around her, leading her around the backyard, carrying her to shop after shop in Diagon Alley. She remembered being little and unable to go to sleep, Mum by her side, gently crooning some old lullaby. She remembered how Mum used to hold onto her hands—so tight, like Grace would float away if she ever let go. She floated through memory after memory, the love for her mother growing immeasurably larger—until the weight of it felt unbearable. The more she fell into this love, the less it felt like love. It felt like pain. She did not know if it was possible for anyone to survive a love like this.

It was scarcely twenty hours later when Dad, who seemed to have lost that last bit of resilience in him when Mum went on, followed. And—impossibly, torturously—the whole process began anew.

* * *

The funeral was a quiet affair. It was too risky to have anything more than a few attendants and a ceremony official sent from the Ministry—or so Lily explained. Grace thought it was rubbish. She couldn’t find it in herself to care about You-Know-Who or his idiot Death Eaters. Her parents deserved to be flung into the stars, and the whole world should have been there to watch. If anyone wanted to attack them, so be it. Grace was sure one look from James or herself could turn the offender to ash.

“…exemplified, above all else, was patience and kindness and hope. While darkness swept over us, while sickness choked them—they held onto these…” the official, a stuffy old man in charcoal robes, droned on and on.

Grace’s hands were clenched tightly in her lap. She was seated at the front of the service, alongside James and Lily. Tears were sliding down her cheeks despite herself. She kept having to brush them away angrily. She did not want to listen to this ancient wizard. He didn’t know her parents, not like she knew him. Was he going to talk about the fervent passion that colored Dad’s voice when he talked about potions ingredients? What about the fond smile that slipped across Mum’s face when James or Grace justified their pranks? Was the official going to mention the thrill of being caught in her Dad’s arms when he used to fling her into the air or the swell of love she felt when she awoke from a paroxysm and felt Mum’s tender hand running through her hair?

Grace’s nails were digging in the smooth flesh of her palms. No matter how hard she tried, she could not let go of this anger. There was so much fury in her; the flames of it licked her insides relentlessly.

The speech ended. Surprise flickered through the small crowd of guests as smoke encircled the slab of stone her parents were laid on. When it cleared, there was a block of smooth, glossy obsidian, her parent’s bodies tucked safely inside. The tomb began to sink into the allotted space in the graveyard. As it settled into the soil, Grace caught her face in the reflection. In her mother and father’s final resting place, Grace saw herself—shadowed and trembling.

Her parents were engulfed by the earth. The headstone was erected; it was a similar cut of black stone, but there were faint strains of silver—light in the dark.

Grace rose along with the other guests, intending to Apparate away at the first chance she got. Unfortunately for her, she was accosted by a weedy woman in bright silk robes. Her hair was styled into an intricate plait, and her eyes were a familiar dark green—Mum’s eyes.

“Oh, _darling_,” she wept, throwing her arms around Grace. “It’s simply awful. I can’t imagine what you’re going through. Aunt Effie was always so—so—”

Grace pushed away her second or third or _whatever_ cousin away roughly. “Fuck off,” she choked out, because no one really meant it. No one understood.

She stalked away, saying roughly the same thing to anyone who dared approach her. Murmurs traveled through the small congregation of attendees. Guests began to actively avoid Grace, although this did little to stop her from shooting glares at anyone who so much as glanced at her.

At last, James pulled her aside roughly. He walked her far away from what remained of the service until they were underneath a crop of trees on the outskirts of the cemetery. “Stop it,” he snapped. “Stop it—”

“Stop _what_?”

“You’re acting like a—a—” He faltered and let out a long breath. “Just _stop_. _Please_. I know you’re upset. I am, too. I wish everyone would leave, too, but they mean well.”

“I don’t _care_ what they mean,” she said, voice shaking. “I don’t—I don’t _care_.”

“Look,” James continued, and his voice was the softest it had been since she first met him in the waiting area of St. Mungo’s at the start of holiday. Merlin, that day felt like it happened eons ago. “We haven’t been on the best of terms these past few weeks. I’m sorry about that. I want to forget it, Grace. We need each other now.”

She still didn’t care. She was too furious to care. She was too heartbroken. She did not want or need anyone.

“Just leave me alone,” she bit out, ripping her arm away from him. “I don’t—”

“You two realize you’re creating something of a scene over here, right?” Sirius said, shuffling forward. His dark hair was swept back neatly. His eyes glanced between the siblings wearily. “Whatever you two are going through, you have to sort it out later. Now is—”

“Go _away_!” Grace snarled at him. “Can’t you just _go_?”

“Oi!” James started, looming forward angrily. “Can you cool it for a minute, Grace? We’re all hurting—”

“Is everything alright?” Lily asked softly, following behind Sirius.

“Everything’s fine,” James said, voice a bit too hard. His eyes didn’t lift from Grace in the slightest.

“Everything’s _not_ fine,” she said. Her voice was on the verge of collapse. “Nothing is fine, and nothing will ever be fine.”

The harsh lines of James’s face fell away. Sympathy flickered across his face. “Grace…” he began, trying to restrain his voice. “We’ll talk later—”

“No, we won’t! We won’t talk, because you’ll go off with all your Order friends—”

Lily inhaled sharply. “You told her about—”

“—and you won’t write me or tell me _anything_ for weeks and weeks, just like how you didn’t tell me about Mum or Dad until you absolutely had to—”

“Nobody is perfect,” Sirius cut in, voice unusually calm. “James has made mistakes. We all have. You need to move—”

“You—leave me _alone_!” Grace cried out, wheeling around to Sirius. Hate swelled in her chest. Her heart didn’t feel like a heart anymore. It was a block of stone. It was a mess of bramble. “You don’t _get it_! You don’t—”

Sirius’s eyes flashed. “I do. They were more my parents than my real ones ever were. They took—”

“No, they weren’t! They were _my_ parents! Not yours—_mine_!”

“I know that, but—”

“Stop,” Remus hissed, drawing Sirius away despite the dark-haired man’s protests. Peter helped Remus limply. “Now is neither the time nor place. People are staring.”

“Try telling her that!”

“You’re just adding fuel to—”

Remus’s words were cut off by James: “Mum and Dad were so much more than just our parents,” he said. “You know that. They meant so much to _so_ many, and—”

“You don’t get it!” she continued desperately. “You don’t—I don’t _care_ about—”

James had reached the end of his patience. “Alright—fine—you’re right. You _don’t_ care,” he snapped. “You don’t care about anyone but yourself. Of course you don’t. You’re a Slytherin, after all. I should have known better. My fucking apologies, your highness.”

She knew it. She fucking _knew_ it. Seven years, and he was _still_ bothered about that, no matter how well he tried to hide it. No matter how much he professed to not care. Her hands jumped to the pockets of her robes, searching around frantically until she found the hilt of her wand. She swung it out, tip facing James. His own wand was out as well. His eyes were narrowed in on her, jaw tense and tight.

“Stop it,” another voice commanded. It belonged to Lily—damp-eyed, one hand clutching her wand tightly. The tip of it swung between the Potter siblings, as though she couldn’t decide who was the greater threat. “Stop it, both of you. You’re grieving. You’re not thinking straight—”

“I’m thinking perfectly fine,” James bit.

“Didn’t think you could think at all, given your dumb Gryffindor brain,” Grace said venomously.

“Oh, we’re sinking to this now, are we?”

“You started it! You start _everything_!”

“I do? Did I start all those fights in St. Mungo’s, too?”

Her throat was thick and dry. “It’s—I’m—it’s all your _fault_!”

The grip on his wand grew tighter. “What a surprise! Yet another thing that’s all my fault—”

Lily reached for her husband with her free hand. “James, I don’t think—”

James’s eyes didn’t lift from Grace. “No,” he said coldly. “No, let’s hear what she has to say. Go on, then. It’s all my fault, is it?”

“It _is_!” she yelled. “You were supposed to look after them! You were supposed to take care of them! Instead, you gallivanted off to honeymoon with a—a—” she knew exactly how to hurt him, she knew exactly how to hurt herself, too, “—_Mudblood_!”

It was the final stake in the heart. James’s mouth snapped shut. Grace’s heart was thundering against her chest. She dimly heard Sirius yell something. Remus didn’t stop him this time. Lily’s arms fell, and she stared at Grace with an unfathomable expression before retreating away.

“You take that back,” James said, and his voice was so quiet and so frail that Grace felt fear slice into her. He seemed on the verge of total collapse. “You can’t—you take that back—”

“It’s _true_,” she spat.

And the trembling calm that lined his face fractured and fell away. “You can’t—you—I don’t care!” James said, and he was snarling the words out. His hands were shaking. The depth of his love could be a terrifying thing. “I don’t care how long I’ve known you, if you’re my sister, if—” his voice broke off, but rapidly regained its strength, “—if you _ever_ say anything like that—!”

“What’ll you do?” she asked, just as furious, just as fierce. This was what they did, she and him. They challenged one another, protested one another. They were two beasts going at one another, from the beginning of time till the end. “What could _you_ do? Run to Mummy? Guess what, James, Mum’s not—”

“I’ll make you _stop_—I don’t care _how_, but I will—I swear, I will—” He was full out sobbing.

“It’s your fault,” Grace said again. She felt cut off from her body. “It’s your fault, it’s your fault, it’s your fault,” she chanted desperately. “It’s—”

“SHUT UP!” James roared. Under the bleak grey light, his cheeks shined with tears. “You know full well this was no one’s fault!”

“No, it—”

“What if was _your_ fault?” James snarled. “Have you ever thought about that? You already think the whole world revolves around you. What if—”

“—it’s always you! It’s always, _always_—”

“—you killed them in the end with all the stress over your problems, your disease—”

She felt like she had been knocked back. Air fled her lungs completely. “That’s not—you can’t—”

“What if it was _you_—”

“No—no, because—” It was never her. It had never, _ever_ been her.

“They worried themselves to death over you—”

“IT WAS ALWAYS YOU!” she screamed, and her voice was a heart-wrenching thing, shrill and devastating. Birds scattered from a nearby tree: slight darts of black sailing through the grey sky. “They loved you best. They loved how _wonderful_ you were at Quidditch, how you snagged Head Boy against all odds, how _funny_ you were, how _happy_ you were. Never like me—never sickly and surly. They loved that you _weren’t me_.”

Who was she talking about? It certainly wasn’t her parents, not patient, gentle Euphemia and Fleamont Potter. No—it was the entire world. It was the roar of the Gryffindor stands whenever James came out on his brand new Nimbus. It was the swoon of fifth-year girls whenever he pranced through the halls, ruffling his hair like a prat, leading Filch in circles. It was the faint, hard-earned smiles McGonagall and Dumbledore fed him whenever he’d demonstrated the depth of his genius by putting on some pointless, reckless display in the Great Hall. It was the beat of his healthy heart and the gleam of his golden skin and the owl he’d received for his first year at Hogwarts.

It was her envy—dark and toxic, eating away at her. She knew her brother didn’t have it easy. She knew he had suffered, too. But not as much as she had. Never as much as she had. He never endured the seizures that ripped through her mind, that left her unconscious and confined to a hospital cot for days on end. He was never left cooped up in his room during the summer, unable to whizz about on broomsticks in the backyard. He was never teased, never had to prove himself to his House members, never had to scrape himself up from nothing. Why would he? James had been given everything.

She had finally managed to knock the words right out of his mouth. James was staring at her, slack-jawed, fingers fidgeting around the handle of his wand. He didn’t seem to recognize her.

“It’s true,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady. She sounded like she was trying to convince more than just James. “It’s true!”

He still didn’t speak, and Grace wanted him to. She wanted him to scream back. She wanted the world to scream back at her, just so she could match the volume, just so she could do something. She wanted to raise her voice and bang her fists and stamp her feet—because what good were those things if not to make noise? If not to rebel? She wanted to tear into the earth with screech after screech, wanted to ruin the world just as it had ruined her.

“Say something!” she shouted

“I don’t speak to strangers.” The words were cold, cutting as pincers.

She was trembling. The world felt little more than a nightmare. Most of the guests had hurriedly left, but a few remained. Peter was hidden behind a furious Sirius, whose anger was only barely restrained by an aghast Remus and a stone-faced Lily.

She wanted them all to leave. She wanted to be left alone. The air around her felt leaden. The atmosphere was pressing down on her.

“I’m so _tired_ of our family,” she said at last, voice shaky. She was so tired of herself—the way she kept on living, kept on spinning, kept seizing and shaking and falling.

“Then go,” James said, chest heaving. The words were quiet, piercing. Grace felt them slice through her heart. “If you’re so tired of us, then just _go_.”

She held his hard, icy gaze in her own for one long moment—hazel bleeding into hazel—before taking one large step back and Apparating away. Her heart tore clean in half as she landed in the crop of cushiony hydrangea by the village square of Godric’s Hollow. She stayed amongst the clump of flowers for what must have been hours, letting the soft petals press into her wet cheeks, the broad, fan-shaped leaves tickle her ears. Slowly, the thorny anger in her ebbed. It wasn’t gone, but it was gentler now—something like a mound of hot coals smoldering in the pit of her stomach.

She rose, digging her foot into the black soil. Sluggishly, she made her way to the cottage to pick up her things. As she walked down that familiar path for what might have been the last time, she tried to tell herself this was all for the greater good. She really did. But this wasn’t what she had intended, and it didn’t feel very great or very good at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Euphemia and Fleamont are watching down from Wizard Heaven like wtf is wrong with my kids....
> 
> (I agonized over this decision for a long time, but, ultimately, I think having Grace’s parents go was the best course for the story. It’s the catalyst for her split with James and a huge turning point for her arc. Again, while major characters will make it through, there are a few minor characters that won’t.)
> 
> As always, thank you for the kudos and comments! Please keep letting me know your thoughts :)


	11. Mask

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grace must prove her loyalty. Instead, she proves her worth and her tolerance and her love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the long wait! This was an incredibly difficult chapter to write simply because there is a LOT happening.
> 
> Also, just a little note regarding Voldemort: Since it’s pre-resurrection, I’m leaning towards that weird, slightly blurred/warped face he had when he met Dumbledore to interview for the post of DADA professor. He’s definitely still messed around with dark magic or whatever, but I don’t think it’s gotten *super* bad yet.
> 
> As always, thank you for the kudos and comments. Please keep letting me know your thoughts!

Grace appeared by the craggy shore of Falmouth. Her trunk—hastily stuffed with clothes and books and only half-shut—landed beside her, thudding against the dark rock. The sun was setting slowly behind her. A thin halo of light wavered over the rolling ocean. It had been many years since she had last visited Falmouth, and the place seemed distant enough that she would not be readily reminded of her family.

She was reminded all the same. It wasn’t because of the cliffside James used to roam by despite their mother’s warnings or the swimming lessons her father had given her by the seashore. It was because of herself. She was Grace Potter, and it did not matter where she went. She carried her family in her heart and in her head. She carried her mother in her sly smiles and her father in her flurried hair and James in her bright eyes. It was impossible not to think of what she was a part of—of what was a part of her.

She sat heavily atop her trunk, cradling her head in her hands. Her eyes scanned across the surface of the ocean emptily. She could not forget the night Lily had barged into her room, the empty cot at St. Mungo’s, the black stone of her parent’s graves, the wild snarl that tore across James’s face as he flung word after word at her. She wondered how long it would take for the ache in her heart to ease. She still remembered when she had gotten the news about Ollie’s death—how tight her throat had been, how her eyes had seared—but time had diluted the memory, softened it. Remembering Ollie felt little more than remembering a dream. She did not want to forget her parents, but she did not want to remember them, either—not now, at least. It hurt too much. It felt selfish, this want of hers, like she was condemning her parents to some deep, dark corner of her mind, but she could not help it. Her heart stung viciously. She wished she could pluck it out of her chest and throw it into the sea.

The sun disappeared into the cliffside, and Grace was swept into darkness. Wind whistled through the distant rock ridge, and she shivered against the cold. After a few more minutes by the swaying sea, she rose shakily and grabbed her trunk by its silver handle, lugging it along the black rock of the shore. It scraped against the ground noisily, and Grace found herself thankful for the screech of metal against stone. The silence had been stifling.

She arrived at the top of the hillside, where the old summer house lay. She had not been here in nearly five years—ever since the war had picked up and Uncle Charlus and Aunt Dorea had become too busy to entertain guests—and it had grown shabby from disuse. Paint was peeling off sides of the house, and the golden doorknob was rusty. Sighing, she set her trunk down by the porch and forced open the door. With a quick flick of her wand, light flooded the interior of the home.

It was still cluttered. Old pails and shovels had been hastily corralled into the corner. All of James’s childhood treasures—his seashells and abandoned Muggle toys—had been carefully arranged in a dusty box. She kicked them aside, padding further into the house. The pull-out was dusty and seemed much smaller than she remembered. James’s old blanket was still there, nestled amongst the throw pillows. She reached for it despite herself, fingers ghosting over the fuzzy material that had been patterned with Golden Snitches. Her own blanket was dotted with stars—constellations and comets—because Merlin forbid she own anything that was even remotely related to Quidditch, right?

Her hand curled over James’s blanket, and she threw it against the floor. A cloud of dust flew up from the impact, and she rapidly blinked away tears as it stung her eyes. She kicked at the blanket, sending it flying into James’s collection of seashells. Her throat was tight. The whole of her ached.

“Prat,” she choked out, and clawed at the boxes, pulling out the dainty cowrie shells and throwing them against the walls. “You—fucking—prat—!”

She kept going until she had shattered every single one, until there wasn’t anything left of his to break. She scrambled further into the mess of the summer home, trying to find more of James’s things, trying to find more to twist and tear. She wanted to ruin him. She wanted to show him how her heart felt. She knocked away the plastic pails and shovels, upturned the couch. She raided the kitchen, flinging old pots and pans, letting them ring and clatter against the floor. She emptied the cabinets one by one, almost methodical in her fury. She tore the curtains down from their rails, shattered the lamps that adorned the walls, and kicked aside her trunk, letting its contains spill and spool over the floor.

Her eyes caught onto her pack of tarot cards—flimsy and pale. Her rampage stilled and stopped, and she found herself dropping to the floor, hands skimming over the fallen cards. One by one, she picked them up, letting the cards slip quietly into place, before beginning to shuffle.

_Will I have a family again?_ Her heart stuttered in her chest. The cards fell over each other in her haste to find an answer. _Tell me I’ll have a family again. Let me have a family again._

Her hand slammed a card down against the floor. It was the Chariot, reversed, again. It was chaos and confusion. It was her heart’s painful crawl up her throat. It was the way the deck dropped from her hands, cards scattering across her lap. It was the strangled noise in the back of her throat and the tears slipping down her cheeks and her hand reaching for that Snitch-patterned blanket.

* * *

She could not go to sleep.

She was slumped against the upturned pull-out, hands fisted into James’s old blanket, trying to swallow down her anger and anguish—but she found she could not let go. She was exhausted, weary to the bone, eyes dry and burning, lips cracked, but could not allow herself to curl into a ball, close her eyes, and drift away. Sleep was shadows and dreams. Sleep was rest. Sleep was peace, and nothing in Grace was at peace. She was spent, but still something in her raged. Something in her still twisted and turned, screamed and sobbed, although she didn’t have the strength to let it out anymore.

She was huddled into herself, still as stone, trying to distract herself from the toss and turn of her heart by blankly examining the fibers of the hardwood floor. Her eyes traced over the spilled contents of her trunk—the robes and nightwear she’d gathered hurriedly from her bedroom, old books from atop her dresser, even the old stuffed owl James had given her so long ago had found its way in there. It had probably gotten mixed up amongst her sheets.

In a heap were her school supplies: textbooks and potions ingredients and—and a curious bit of spare parchment littered with text. It was not her own handwriting that was spread across the parchment; it was Regulus’s. Frowning, Grace shifted for the first time in what must have been hours and reached for the sheet of paper. It was not just any spare roll of parchment. It was her half of the spellbound sheet, and it was filled with frantic messages from Regulus over the past few days.

Guilt rose in the back of her throat like bile. She had almost forgotten about him. She had not quite forgotten the plan, because that was the whole reason she was here in Falmouth to begin with, but she had very nearly forgotten the reason for it.

Grace brought the parchment close to her and began to read:

> _Hello—I just wanted to check in and see how you’re holding up. Are your parents doing any better? _
> 
> _Grace, I know you’re going through a lot, but we really do have to talk. I’m worried about meeting Bellatrix. She can get rather temperamental, and I’m beginning to think we should have some sort of backup plan when we’re meeting her. What do you think?_
> 
> _I got to a weird section of Vablatsky’s journal. It’s tough to translate, and I think I should re-read what I’ve already translated just to be sure, but she noticed something about you in fifth year. I don’t think it’s good. We really have to talk._
> 
> _Could you Apparate to the Leaky Cauldron sometime soon? I know it’s tough to get away from everyone at St. Mungo’s, but we really ought to talk. I got through what Vablatsky’s written—and it’s really not good at all. She didn’t want you to See. I don’t think we should go through with our plan. Grace, I need to talk to you._
> 
> _Please write to me. Are you okay? Are you there?_
> 
> _Grace—please talk to me. Please tell me you’re okay. Did something happen? Are you safe?_

There was more, but it was all the same—desperate, messy messages asking if Grace was there, if she would please talk to him, if she was safe, if something had happened, if she was okay, if he had done something wrong.

Grace swallowed thickly and moved towards her trunk. She dug around for a fresh quill and inkpot. When she’d finally found one, she vanished the previous messages from the spellbound sheet and began to write her own:

> _I’m okay. I need to talk to you, too. I’m at Falmouth, at the Potter summer home. There’s a fireplace here. You can Floo over whenever you want. There’s no one else here._

She watched as the ink faded away. Her hand stilled over the parchment. After the last of the words disappeared, she pressed the nib of her quill against the sheet once more and added:

> _I’m sorry._

With that, she threw aside her quill and settled against the flipped pull-out. She didn’t know exactly what she was sorry for, just that she was. It was the best way to describe the unsettling tug-of-war going on in the center of her chest. She might have been sorry about ignoring Regulus or sorry about the fight with James or sorry about her parent’s deaths or sorry about the war going on beyond the four walls of the house she was huddled inside or all of the above—and much, much more. She might have been sorry for nothing except for herself, except for how awful and alone she felt.

She sighed and lifted her head. Her eyes traced over the cobwebbed ceiling of the old house. She wondered how long it would take for Regulus to arrive. She wouldn’t be surprised if he never came. She hadn’t replied to him in a few days. He might have tossed aside the sheet entirely. He might have given up on her. From the tone of his messages, he seemed to be on the verge of giving up on their plan entirely.

The disused fireplace suddenly roared with life. Grace scrambled up in shock, hugging James’s old blanket tightly around her shoulders. She watched, wide-eyed, as the emerald flames arched up from the old grate. Out of the throng of fire stepped Regulus Black—neatly dressed and well put-together. There wasn’t a wrinkle on him, apart from the crease between his brows and tight pull of his jaw.

His grey eyes flew around the utterly trashed room before finally settling on Grace. And despite her disheveled hair and the dusty, dirty blanket wrapped around her, despite the broken bits of cowrie and glass embedded in her robes, despite the harrowed look in her eye, he crossed over to her in two great strides and took her into her arms. He pressed her close to him, and Grace’s white-hot rage—that sharp, unyielding part of her, that terribly prickly thing that sat heavy in her chest, that made it impossible for her to relax and rest—softened and melted. She buried her head into the crook of his neck and breathed deeply. He smelled of broomstick polish and ash.

“You’re okay,” he said, more to himself than to her. “You’re… Salazar, what _happened_? Were you attacked?”

She lifted her head and saw that he was surveying the disarray of the summer home. “Er—no,” she coughed out. “That was… I did that. I was a bit angry.”

“Oh.” His brows rose as he surveyed the torn curtains, the overturned pull-out, the shards of glass. “How long have you been staying here?”

“A few hours.”

He nodded absently, releasing his hold on her. He strode over to the door and opened it, briefly peeking outside to survey the rolling hills, the distant shore, the dark rock of the cliffside.

“Are there any wards up?” he asked as he shut the door behind him.

“I dunno.”

An uneasy expression crossed over him. “Okay… Well, we should set up some wards as soon as possible. We’ll fix—er—_this_—” his eyes passed over the mess distastefully, “—up, too. And we’ve got to close the Floo. It’s not safe to have it open. You said you’re the only one here, right? Your brother won’t stop by or—”

She didn’t know why it was that sentence that had done it, but it was. She promptly burst into tears. Regulus’s words came to an abrupt halt. A terrible feeling clawed up from the pit of her stomach and settled into her heart. It was something like dread and grief and rage mixed all into one. It was the uncertainty of what was to come, the shadowed reflection that looked back at her when she saw her parent’s tomb, the stinging words she had thrown at James. It was the whole world pressing onto her back.

“I’m sorry,” Regulus said immediately, running his hands over her arms, eyes flickering over her, trying to find the root of her despair. “I’m sorry—I didn’t—” but he didn’t know what was wrong, so he couldn’t say anything except for, “—I’m sorry, Grace. I’m—”

“N—no,” she said, biting down hard to stop herself from unraveling. “No, it’s not you. It’s that… It’s that…”

She didn’t know how to say it. She collapsed back down against the pull-out and pressed the hilt of her palms against her eyes. Regulus followed quickly, kneeling beside her, cautious, hesitant. He was the only unbroken thing in the house.

“What happened?” he asked softly.

“Mum and Dad are—” She couldn’t say the word out loud. She dropped her hands from her face and stared emptily at the floor. “They’ve passed on.”

“Oh, Grace…”

And that was enough. The way he said her name was enough. The past few days had dragged on and on. It felt like it had been decades since anyone had said her name like that—softly, with infinite tenderness, with all the love and care anyone could humanly muster.

He shuffled closer to her. His pressed robes brushed against her. “I’m sorry,” he repeated, but now he understood. “Do you want me to do anything? I can set up the wards around the house. And I can have Kreacher help with the furniture around here. Have you eaten yet? Is there anything you’d like?”

She saw it in the earnest furrow of his brow, in the devoted silver of his eyes: Regulus would have gotten her anything she wanted. Somehow, this realization did little to untangle the knotted mess that was her heart. It only served to make her feel worse. How could he be _this_ wonderful? How could he be _this_ soft-hearted? She had not been there for him when he needed her most, and despite that, he came here tonight—and he had brought all his love and loyalty with him.

Fresh tears gathered in her eyes. “Th—this is how _you_ felt,” Grace started, rubbing at her eyes. “Godric, Regulus, I’m so sorry—”

“_You’re_ sorry?” he said, alarmed. “You don’t need to be. Why in—”

“When your dad died, and your mum and Bellatrix were shoving all that pure-blood crap right under your nose, and Sirius wasn’t there, and it was just you, and you had no idea what to do—that’s—that’s like what _this_ is. And it’s—it’s _horrible_. I’m so sorry; I didn’t understand before, and—”

“It’s okay,” he said, stopping her gently. “It’s okay. I’ve never held that against you. You know that, right? I never told you. It’s not your fault you didn’t know when I didn’t tell you.”

“But still...”

She shut her eyes again. It felt like it was her fault. It felt like everything wrong with the world was her fault. _It’s your fault_, she had screamed at James just a few hours ago. _What if it was your fault?_ he had screamed right back.

“It’s not,” Regulus said resolutely. “I’m fine now. Let’s worry about you, okay? Where is James?”

She stiffened. “James and I…we’re not…we fought, Regulus.”

Regulus froze. His panicked eyes caught onto hers. “You don’t mean that—”

“Yeah.” The word was short and clipped. “It was…bad. But at least it’s over now. I think—I think he’d still listen to me if I went to him and explained, but he wouldn’t come here on his own. Not after…that.”

Regulus was shaking his head. “No—oh, Salazar—Grace, I should have found my way to you earlier. We should drop this plan. I finished trans—”

Grace’s lips twisted into a deep frown. “We can’t drop this plan, Regulus.” She had given up so much for it. She had given up so much for him. “There’s no way we can drop this plan.”

“Just—just listen to me first, okay?” he said. “In the beginning, Vablatsky was trying to nudge your progress along. She was doing it because she recognized great potential in you, and because she thought if you were acclimated to your Inner Eye, your condition might be cured. But by the end of fourth year, she realized you _weren’t_ getting better. And she did some research, and she found that nobody _ever_ gets better.”

Dread clawed its way up her throat. “What’re you saying?” 

“In fifth year, she wanted to slow your progress. She wanted to cut you off from your Inner Eye, because she figured that was the only way you wouldn’t go the same way every other true Seer has gone. She was trying to stop you from Seeing.”

Grace shook her head. “That doesn’t make sense. How could she do that?”

“It _does_ make sense,” Regulus insisted. “Didn’t you think it was strange that you caught onto Occlumency as quick as you did?”

“Yeah, but maybe that’s just the way my mind is.”

“Maybe it is, but it also has to do with the fact that Vablatsky was secretly teaching you Occlumency ever since fifth year.”

Grace’s brows flew up. “What?”

“Every Seeing trick she taught you that year and the next was actually just an Occlumency technique. She wrote about them: still the waters of your mind—”

“Keep your thoughts calm and clear,” Grace completed tonelessly. “Those weren’t…for Seeing?”

“No, it was for Occlumency. She thought it was the only way to cut your mind off from its Inner Eye, to disconnect you from it. She was worried if you didn’t learn and use Occlumency, your Inner Eye would eventually adjust on its own and consume you. That’s how it’s gone for every other witch or wizard with true Sight. You can’t See—you _shouldn’t_. It’ll make your condition worse. It’ll drive you mad. It could destroy you.”

“I…”

She shut her eyes again and leaned against the pull-out. If only there was more time—for everything. More time for her parents. More time for her to figure out this bump in the road. More time to prepare for her meeting with Bellatrix.

But there wasn’t more time. There was only this moment, and Grace needed to catch hold of it quickly.

“Okay, fine,” Grace breathed. “So I won’t See. I’ll just do the tarot readings or—”

“You know that won’t work. You-Know-Who wants a Seer. A _real_ Seer with _real_ prophecies—”

“Then I’ll convince him I can do that,” she snapped.

“How?” he said, stricken. “How in Merlin’s name could we possibly convince him of that?”

“I—I don’t know yet. But we’ll figure it out. We’ll—”

“Grace, we can’t just march into this blindly. We still have a day and a half before we meet Bellatrix. I can feed her some excuse, like maybe you’ve gone out of the country, and at least postpone—”

“No, we’ve got to meet with Bellatrix. If you tell her I’m not coming, she’s going to be suspicious of you. We should just stick to the plan.”

“But you can’t—”

“We can’t drop the plan, Regulus!” She turned her wild eyes on him. “I didn’t just narrowly avoid dueling my brother for nothing! I didn’t just upset my parent’s funeral for nothing!”

She took a staggered, shallow breath and retreated into herself.

“Grace,” Regulus said softly, “I know what you’ve given up. I know what you’ve done. But it’s reversible. We can explain to James. Maybe just having me as a spy will be enough. I don’t—I don’t want you to have to risk your life and your sanity trying to See.”

But it wouldn’t work the way Regulus wanted it to. It wouldn’t work if she wasn’t there. James would blame her behavior over the holiday on Regulus, and his distaste for the younger Black would only grow stronger. Sirius would be proven right. Regulus would be thrown into Azkaban. Or—or even if James took pity on them, even if he managed to convince the Order to use Regulus as a spy—could Regulus do it on his own? Could he keep his nerve? All by himself?

Grace didn’t know. She didn’t know. Her head was scrambled. It had only been a few hours since she had buried her parents.

“Regulus—” she said, and her voice was so strained, so distraught, “—I don’t want to talk about this anymore. I don’t want to—I don’t want to think about this anymore.”

He swallowed down his reservations and nodded. “Okay,” he said gently. “You don’t have to. I can do the thinking for both of us.”

“Okay,” she agreed and slumped against the pull-out. She traced over the scattered books and trampled boxes that littered the summer home. “I feel awful.”

Regulus settled down beside her and put his arms around her. She let herself fall into him. His dark, neatly brushed curls brushed against her forehead.

“Have you eaten?” he asked again.

“No.”

“Do you want to?”

Not particularly, but she knew Regulus wanted her to.

“I kind of want some soup.”

“Kreacher,” Regulus called.

A loud crack tore through the air. A hunched, slight house-elf appeared before them. He was dressed in a nice, if not somewhat threadbare, tea towel toga. He was far older than any house-elf Grace had ever seen—with more wrinkles and sagging skin than an elephant—but this didn’t stop him from throwing himself at Regulus’s feet.

“Master Regulus!” the house-elf cried out jubilantly. “Mistress is wondering why Master Regulus left dinner early. Mistress is very upset—”

“Er—right—well, you can just tell her that the Dark Lord called for me if she asks again.”

Kreacher’s eyes flickered to Grace, and then to the disorderly room, and then back to Regulus. If he was upset about being given such a blatant lie, he certainly didn’t show it. He merely nodded.

“Thank you,” Regulus said appreciatively. “This is Grace, by the way.”

The mention of her name carried some sort of weight because recognition flitted across Kreacher’s bulbous eyes. He snuck an unsure glance at Regulus before turning towards Grace and bowing deeply, although he didn’t seem very happy about it.

“Er—no, that’s okay,” Grace said uncomfortably. “You don’t need to do that.”

Kreacher straightened up. His lips were pressed into a tight grimace. His large eyes studied Grace with distaste.

“Hello…?” Grace tried after it was clear he was not going to look away anytime soon.

“Master Regulus!” the house-elf suddenly burst, wheeling towards Regulus and collapsing by his feet. “The Potter girl is far below your station!”

“Kreacher—!”

“You mustn’t leave Mistress for the Potter girl, Master Regulus!”

“I’m not—”

“It would break Mistress’s heart! Kreacher is begging you, Master—”

“We could have gotten food from the Muggle town,” Grace muttered under her breath.

“Kreacher, I am not leaving Grimmauld Place!” Regulus said. “Grace just needed my help. Please—_please_ try to calm down.”

Kreacher took a few shuddering gasps for air before clamping his mouth shut.

“I’ll return to Mother shortly,” Regulus promised. “In the meantime, do you mind making us some food? Or, if there are leftovers at Grimmauld Place, could you bring those over?”

“Food?” Kreacher repeated. His eyes narrowed at Grace. “For…_her_?”

“Yes. Some soup, preferably.” Regulus glanced back at Grace before leaning towards Kreacher. In a lowered voice, he said, “Come on… Please, Kreacher?”

Kreacher softened under Regulus’s gaze. He nodded. “Yes, Master Regulus.”

Grace would have been baffled by the interaction had it been anyone _but_ Regulus. Of course Regulus didn’t order around Kreacher. Of course he said _Do you mind?_ and _Could you?_ and _Please?_ It was a far cry from the forceful _I want_ and _give me_ that Grace and James fed their own house-elf growing up.

Kreacher disappeared with a loud _pop!_ and reappeared in a few minutes with some French onion soup and bread. After Grace had finished every last drop of the soup and had a nibble of bread, Regulus forced her into the bathroom to have a steaming hot shower. When Grace stepped out a half-hour later, she found Kreacher was gone and the entire summer home had been cleaned. The pull-out had been righted and dusted, the pillows and blankets had been Scourgified, the curtains were strung from the windows, the contents of the kitchen were back in their rightful places, and all of James’s old things had been neatly packed and shoved into a corner.

Grace’s shoulders relaxed. A small smile flickered across her face.

“Oh, you’re out,” Regulus said. He was fluttering by the kitchen. “I’ve been searching for spare sheets. Are they in here?”

He reached for the door off to the side, and Grace’s heart dropped down to her feet. She surged forward.

“Stop! Regulus—no, stop,” she cried out.

His hand dropped from the doorknob, and he looked up in panic. “What? What is it?”

“You can’t go in there,” she told him, chin trembling. “That’s—that’s Mum and Dad’s room.”

It wasn’t _really_, of course. It hadn’t been their room in roughly five years, but Grace didn’t care. That was the room her parents had slept in, once. That was the room they had breathed in and lived in and loved in. She could not open it, not yet.

“Oh,” he said softly, and retreated from the door. “I’ll just conjure you some sheets, then? Are you sleeping on the pull-out?”

She nodded numbly and followed him over to the pull-out. Regulus tugged out the makeshift bed and dusted it off. Grace hovered by the bed. Regulus handed her the plumpest pillow he could find and her old star-patterned blanket. She watched quietly as his hands skirted over the end of the bed, fitting the sheet into place.

“Are you staying?”

His hand froze on the edge of the pull-out. “Do you want me to?”

“Yes.”

“Then I’ll stay.”

She settled into the bed while Regulus put out the lights. It wasn’t very comfortable. Grace could feel the springs of the mattress every time she moved, and her feet were hanging off the edge of the bed—but it was better than nothing. It was better than being alone. Regulus slipped in beside her, and she waited until his breathing evened out before rolling over to face him.

She studied the curl of his dark hair, the curve of his thick lashes, the sharp turn of his jaw. She still did not feel very good about herself, but she felt better with him here. She knew they had dreamt up this plan together, that they were in this together and would be until the very end, but this knowledge did little to ease the sting of loneliness when she was at St. Mungo’s and the funeral. She had been ignored and abandoned and hurt. And somewhere in the mess of the past few days, she had begun to lose herself. She was glad Regulus was here now. If anyone could remind her of herself, it was him.

In the dark, her hand found his.

* * *

“We still don’t know what to do about the Seeing thing,” Regulus reminded her for what might have been the hundredth time.

“She won’t ask me for a demonstration. No one can spit out a prophecy on command. If she wants me to prove my worth, I’ll just do a tarot reading.” Grace stabbed at her scrambled eggs. “Can you pass me the ketchup?”

Regulus dutifully handed her the bottle. He had finished his own breakfast a while ago, back at Grimmauld Place, and was sitting pensively across from Grace in the kitchen of her summer home. He was dressed in fine silk robes, quietly battling the storm of anxiety overcoming his features.

“Bellatrix wouldn’t ask for a tarot reading,” Regulus said after a moment. “She thinks they’re rubbish.”

“Good. Then we don’t have anything to worry about.” Grace polished off the rest of her food and rose to set her plate in the sink.

Regulus’s eyes followed her. “Divination aside, I still think this is a bad idea. We should wait.”

“We’ve already been over this.”

“You’re still grieving—”

“I’m _fine_,” she said with a little more force than necessary. She swallowed thickly.

Regulus’s face fell. “Grace…”

“I’m fine,” she repeated, this time drawing out the word. “I am.”

And maybe that was a lie, but it was a damn good one. She could convince herself she was fine even if she wasn’t. She could hold herself together, at least for this, and—and—so what if she fell apart at the last second? So what if Bellatrix believed her or not? If Bellatrix was intrigued or irritated by her? They were still in the early stages of the plan. There was room for error. If Bellatrix did not like her, then Grace would move on. Then they’d find a different way.

“We’re doing this,” she said firmly. “What have we got to lose?”

“You,” Regulus said, very clearly heartbroken at the prospect. “You don’t know Bellatrix. She’s suspicious by nature, and combative, and—”

“I can handle Bellatrix,” Grace assured. “I survived Sirius living in my house for two and a half years. It can’t be much worse than that.”

Regulus shook his head. “It’s _so_ much worse.”

“It’ll be fine,” Grace said. She shrugged on her cloak and headed towards the door. “Besides, we can’t cancel now. It’s too late.”

She was right on that count. Regulus sighed in defeat and followed after her. They meandered down the hillside. When they were past the point of the wards, Regulus took Grace’s hand in his own and Apparated them to Knockturn Alley. They landed on a patch of cobblestone, squeezed between two tall, thin buildings. Despite the fact it was morning, the entire alleyway was shrouded in shadows.

“Here,” Regulus said, squeezing out of the nook.

They entered a somewhat busy area. Witches and wizards clamored around questionable shops. Some were hauling around bags and carts, trying to convince hapless passersby to purchase their wares. Grace wrinkled her nose as she saw a weedy witch pull aside a passing wizard and show him a row of shrunken head charms.

Regulus pulled out a silver pocket watch from his robes. “She should be here by now…”

“Maybe she got held up?”

Regulus snapped the watch shut and put it away. “I doubt that. It’s not like she’s particularly busy.”

“Is she always—”

Regulus suddenly surged forward and grabbed her hand, pulling her out of the way of a self-moving cart filled to the brim with what was either old pots and pans or dark artifacts charmed to look like old pots and pans. The wizard behind the cart scowled angrily at them. Grace shot him a rude hand gesture with her free hand.

“Grace…” he sighed.

“What?” she said defensively.

He didn’t say anything, choosing to lead her to a remote corner of the alley. His hand didn’t leave hers; if anything, he held on tighter.

“I was going to ask if your cousin is always late,” Grace asked once they came to a stop.

“She’s only ever late if she’s not interested in what she’s attending.” Regulus’s lips were twisted into a nervous grimace. “But meeting you is something she’s doing on behalf of You-Know-Who. She wouldn’t be late for this.”

“Then maybe we’re in the wrong place?”

He shook his head. “No, she told me—”

He never got to finish, because he was hit by a blasting charm. He was thrown back a few meters, his back thudding roughly against the far end of the alcove they were clustered in. Grace’s wand was out in a flash. She whipped around to face the attacker, a particularly nasty curse just on the tip of her tongue, but as soon as she caught sight of the person—a slight woman with thick dark hair and wide eyes—she faltered.

“Andromeda?” she gaped.

As soon as she said it, she realized how wrong she was. This woman was not Andromeda at all. At the mention of the name, her lips puckered into a tight, revolted frown. Her eyes darkened and flitted over Grace like she was a particularly irksome pest. There was something rough about her, something wicked that clung to the sharp lines and harsh planes of her face.

This was Bellatrix Lestrange.

“Don’t you _dare_ speak that name in my—”

“Why in Merlin’s name did you _hex me_?” Regulus cried out, having collected himself from the other end of the alcove. He rolled back his shoulder and winced at a brief flash of pain.

Heavy irritation fell over Bellatrix. She glanced at Regulus briefly. “Because you’re an easy target,” she said flatly.

“You were supposed to meet us at—”

She smiled suddenly, and Regulus stopped speaking at once. Grace understood why. The smile Bellatrix wore wasn’t a smile at all. There was something cutting and disturbing lurking within that smile, and—paired with the wild hair and heavy-lidded eyes—she seemed almost deranged.

“Do you want me to hex you again, Reggie?” Bellatrix said sweetly.

“N—no,” he stammered out.

“Then stop nagging me.” She turned her frightful gaze back to Grace. She raised a thin brow. “So you’re _it_?”

“Yes…?”

Bellatrix’s eyes flickered back to Regulus. “I was surprised when you told me about her, Reggie.” Her words were light and teasing enough, but there was something dangerous hidden beneath. “I didn’t think you would advertise the fact that you’re sleeping with muck.”

Grace’s brows flew up. Regulus choked on nothing but air.

And then, like she had said nothing at all, Bellatrix turned around and began to walk away. “Come,” she called back loftily, “I know a place we can talk.”

Grace followed warily. Regulus had been right. This was far worse than living under the same roof as Sirius for two and a half years.

“She’s not—I mean, I didn’t say—” Regulus started under her breath.

“I know,” Grace sighed quietly.

They accompanied Bellatrix to a seedy tavern at the other end of the alleyway. The bar, called _The Hanging Man_, seemed almost on the edge of ruin. The shutters were falling off the window panes and every surface was covered with a thick layer of grime. The bar’s only redeeming quality was the fact that no one was there—not even a bartender. Whatever was discussed here would remain secret.

“Sit,” Bellatrix ordered, pointing to a particularly dusty seat by the door.

Grace sat down. Regulus settled beside her woodenly. Bellatrix pulled out the chair across from them and collapsed into it. Her eyes danced between the two of them hungrily before landing on Grace.

“You’re a Seer, is it?”

Grace perked up. “Yes. I was trained under Cassandra Vablatsky since—”

“Right. I met her.”

Grace’s brows furrowed. “You did?”

“Oh, yes. It was a brief meeting. Didn’t last more than a few minutes before she started reaching for that vial of poison around her neck.” Bellatrix rolled her eyes. “I’ll tell you what—I thought the old bat would have more fight in her. One round of the Cruciatus, and she was already _begging_. I suppose some people are just _born_ weak.”

Grace bit her tongue to stop herself from speaking. Underneath the filthy table, Regulus’s hand found hers again, and he squeezed tightly—a comfort. A warning.

“All in all, she was still a decent Seer, I hear,” Bellatrix continued. “If you trained under her, I suppose you must be, too.”

“I am.”

“So—” Bellatrix leaned forward, “—why are you here? If you’re as good as you are, why’re you coming to us? Why aren’t you offering yourself up to the Ministry?”

“Why would I ever offer myself up to the Ministry?” Grace countered viciously. “What good have they ever done for us? If they weren’t so concerned with keeping Muggles and Mudbloods happy, they could have devoted the much-needed time and energy to helping _actual_ wizards. They could have found a cure for Dragon Pox by now. They could have—”

“If you’re going to lead into an impassioned speech about your parents, I’d rather you didn’t. I’ve already heard all about what happened there.”

Grace faltered. “You have?”

“Yes. Your little strop at the funeral made the _Prophet_.” Bellatrix grinned at Grace’s surprise. “You didn’t know? Oh, it was _such_ a delightful read. ‘Youngest Potter Disgraces the Family Name’ is what it’s called, if I recall correctly. Fantastic article. I think it might be Skeeter’s best work.”

“_I_ disgraced the family name?” Grace bit. “When _James_ was the one who pulled me aside? When _he_ was the one who insulted me?” She didn’t know where this rage was coming from, but it was coming out thick and fast and sudden, and she was not sure if she could stop it. “When _he_ was blaming me for their—”

“_Grace_,” Regulus hissed lowly, bringing her to a stop.

“Oh, Salazar,” Bellatrix drawled. “I don’t want to hear about your family issues. They’re quite tame as far as pure-blood drama goes.”

“Then what do you want to hear about?” Grace asked, voice tight and drawn.

“You still haven’t told me why you want to join us.”

“I was taught by Vablatsky, and I believe my—”

“Yes, yes,” Bellatrix groaned. “I’ve heard all this drivel from Regulus already. I’ll tell you the truth: I don’t particularly _care_ if you can See or not. I don’t want to know _what_ you can offer us. I want to know _why_ you’re coming to us to begin with it.” Bellatrix’s eyes searched her. They were as dark and bottomless as an abyss. “Why do you want to join us?”

The answer came easier than expected: “Because I’m angry.”

Bellatrix cocked her head. “Why?”

“I don’t know,” she ground out. “I just am. I always have been. This seems as good an outlet as any.”

Bellatrix held her gaze for a moment longer before breaking out into wild, shrill laughter. She rose, the legs of her chair scraping against the floor. “I don’t know if you have what it takes to join our ranks, but, if anything, the Dark Lord is sure to get a rise out of you.” She extended a hand to Grace. “Let’s go.”

“Go?”

“Yes,” she said impatiently. “The Dark Lord has been waiting. We ought to leave now.”

“Wait—what?” Regulus stood up so fast his chair was knocked back. “What do you mean now? Right now?”

Bellatrix’s hand—a slight, wicked thing—reached forward and snatched Grace’s wrist. She shot her younger cousin a cutting smile. “Oh, I’ll get her back to you in one piece, Reggie—more or less.”

His wand was out. “This isn’t what we discuss—”

Bellatrix tugged Grace towards her. The older witch took one step forward and Apparated. Grace struggled to turn her head as the atmosphere warped around them. The wind whistled and tore at her. The air bit into her. When at last she managed to look back, she only saw that Regulus was gone.

* * *

Grace collapsed onto a dirt path, panting and wheezing. Apparating with Bellatrix was like being flung into the sky without a broomstick. The trip had taken longer than expected, and the turns and twists seemed sharper and crueler than Grace was used to. It was a miracle she hadn’t been splinched somewhere along the journey.

“Get up,” the older witch commanded.

With one last trembling breath, Grace forced herself up. She dusted her hands against her robes and looked around. They were at some sort of estate. Rows of neatly trimmed, verdant hedges surrounded them. A great, iron-wrought gate stood only a few meters away and just beyond it was an enormous manor. Dawdling by the doorstep were a couple of white-feathered peacocks. Amidst the morning mist, they seemed little more than phantoms.

Bellatrix surged forward.

“Er—where are we?” Grace asked, scurrying after her.

The older witch shot her a displeased look and didn’t answer. She chose, instead, to increase the length of her stride, borderline dashing towards the arched entranceway of the manor. Grace followed her hastily; the beat of her heart matched the strike of her feet against the ground. There was a pinprick of dread beginning to unravel in the center of her chest, but there was nothing Grace could do about it, not now.

The double doors banged open, and Grace was greeted by a luxuriously decorated parlor: silver-edged tapestries and gilded portraits hung from the walls, plush armchairs and loveseats dotted the room, and a roaring hearth washed the whole thing in a soft glow. Bellatrix barreled through the room and was stopped just as she reached the hallway by another witch—a tall woman with hair so fine and pale it seemed like platinum.

Grace’s brows knitted together as she drank in the woman’s sharp features and grey eyes. She had seen this witch before, when she was much younger, with plumper cheeks and brighter eyes. This was Narcissa Black—now Malfoy. What in Merlin’s name was she doing here?

“Bella?” Narcissa said with clear surprise. Her eyes darted over her sister’s shoulders and flickered over Grace’s flustered form. Her lips pinched together into a tight frown. “What is _she_ doing here?”

“A new recruit,” Bellatrix said shortly, side-stepping Narcissa. “He already knows of her.”

Narcissa’s brows furrowed. “But she’s—”

“The Dark Lord is well aware, Cissy.”

Something sharp lurked underneath Bellatrix’s words, and Narcissa’s lips clamped shut. She nodded dumbly and disappeared into the shadows of the hallway. Bellatrix made a sudden left, hurtling down a different section of the enormous house. Grace followed at a slower pace, finding herself preoccupied with testing the strength of her mental shield. If You-Know-Who was lurking somewhere in this opulent house, she ought to make sure she was ready. 

Bellatrix led her to a plain door. She twisted the knob and stepped inside. Grace took a deep breath and stepped in after her. The room was small and shadowed. The curtains were drawn, and there were only a few lit candles in one corner. At the other end was a large, plush armchair. Seated in it was a shrouded figure.

Bellatrix shuffled closer to the figure, and the change in her was remarkable. Gone was the tall, proud Bellatrix who had ambushed Grace and Regulus in Knockturn Alley. In her place was a stooped witch with shining eyes and a doting smile. She reached for the hem of You-Know-Who’s robes.

“My Lord,” Bellatrix said sweetly, “I’ve brought the girl my cousin informed us of. The Seer.”

Grace followed after Bellatrix. The longer she spent in the dim room and the closer she got to the chair, the more she could see. The man in the chair was very tall. His skin was taut, pale, and waxy. There was an almost blurry quality to him, and the longer Grace stared, the less she was able to focus on any particular feature of his face. The only thing that stuck out was the harsh red of his eyes.

“_Kneel_,” Bellatrix hissed suddenly, breaking Grace out of her stupor.

She began to bend forward, but evidently she was too slow, because Bellatrix let out an irritated growl and jabbed her wand forward. A terrible numbness climbed the length of Grace’s spine, and she soon found herself sprawled forward on the floor, arms splayed, forehead pressed against the wood. She tried to move, but her limbs refused to cooperate.

“This is the Potter girl?” You-Know-Who hummed quietly. His voice was little more than a whisper—a shadow, soft and sibilant. “I expected more.”

“Forgive my cousin, my Lord,” Bellatrix said instantly, although there wasn’t a shred of sympathy in her voice for Regulus. “He often exaggerates the—”

You-Know-Who raised a hand, and Bellatrix’s words died in her throat. “Let her rise.”

The spell on Grace’s body retreated, and she exhaled quietly as she regained control over herself. She hauled herself up and met You-Know-Who’s eyes once more. He stared at her unabashedly and, for a moment, Grace wondered if this was some sort of test of willpower. Perhaps they were entering a staring contest of some sort?

But then she felt the faintest prod against her mind—like a flat stone skipping over the surface of a lake—and panic flooded her. Her mental shield was as strong as ever, but in her haste, in her hurry, she had completely forgotten to project a false layer of thought. To You-Know-Who, it seemed as if the girl who entered hadn’t a single thought in her head. Quickly, Grace conjured up some flimsy false layer—something involving reverence and awe, something about how dumbstruck she was—and felt the curious prodding retreat.

She nearly sighed in relief.

“Bellatrix has told me much about you,” You-Know-Who said after a moment. “She tells me you were trained under Vablatsky.”

“Yes, my Lord,” Grace said smoothly, mimicking Bellatrix’s cloying voice. “Vablatsky considered me her protégé, and passed down every trick she knew to me.”

“Have you had genuine visions of the future?”

“Yes, my Lord.”

You-Know-Who leaned back. “And have prophecies accompanied these visions?”

“No, my Lord. I am still learning. But I have true Sight, and—”

He raised a hand. “I have heard this already. Is there anything new you have to add?”

“No, my Lord.” Regulus had likely told Bellatrix everything Grace planned to say.

A steely silence followed. Grace’s eyes flickered to the side, where Bellatrix was watching eagerly. She seemed to be waiting for something.

“Have you experience with the Dark Arts?” You-Know-Who asked after a moment.

“Not in practice, my Lord.”

“Dueling?”

“I’ve dueled a few times at Hogwarts, but—”

“I don’t mean petty squabbles. Have you ever engaged in a true duel?”

Grace felt this was hardly a fair question to ask her. When had Yaxley or Rosier or Regulus ever engaged in a _real_ duel?

She swallowed her irritation and answered: “No, my Lord.”

“Do you have any Ministry connections?”

“No, my Lord.”

“So, if I understand correctly, you know nothing of the Dark Arts. You cannot duel. You have no connections in the Ministry. As it stands, you have little use to me beyond your ability to See,” You-Know-Who surmised. “But…you are the sister of one of Dumbledore’s most prized soldiers.”

Grace’s lips pursed.

“You may prove useful in procuring the Potter boy and his wife.”

Bellatrix breathed in sharply. “My Lord,” she said, “you mean to say the _Mudblood_ is still—”

“That Mudblood has bested many of our own,” You-Know-Who intoned deeply, silencing Bellatrix at once. “Severus believes there may be more to her blood than we’re aware. If she can be persuaded to join our ranks, so be it. She would be a powerful resource against Dumbledore and his band of fools.”

“But, my Lord, we have already waste—”

“Bellatrix.” He flung the name like a whip. “Leave us.”

Bellatrix’s face fell. She nodded mutely and ducked out of the room, but not without shooting Grace a dark glance. Once the door clicked shut, Grace looked to You-Know-Who.

“My Lord,” she began reverently, “I know it seems I don’t—”

“Crucio,” he said, and his voice was so soft that Grace barely heard it at all.

A jet of harsh red light burst from the tip of the You-Know-Who’s wand and hit Grace square in the chest. She crumpled to the floor in an instant, a scream ripping from her throat. An invisible fire trailed over her skin, licking every fiber of flesh. She felt it burrow itself into her body, tracing the lining of her organs, searing away her nerves, clawing up her throat, stinging her eyes, clustering at her heart. She was being burned alive. Thought fled her completely. There was no room in her head to form a coherent idea, to come up with a plan to escape, to stop this. There was only the pain, large and unavoidable, devouring her completely. There was only her body writhing senselessly on the floor, her limbs contorting, her cries—pleading and sobbing and unintelligible—puncturing the air. There was only this moment, and it was never-ending.

“Do you think me a fool?” he said, lifting the curse after what felt like centuries. “Did you think I wouldn’t notice the mental shield you’re _flaunting_?”

“My Lord,” she tried desperately, terrified that he might lift his wand and cast another Cruciatus, “I have true Sight. I use Occlumency to cut myself off from my Inner Eye. Otherwise, I’m—”

“_Silence_,” he hissed.

With a flick of his wand, Grace’s voice was stolen from her mouth. Another jet of red light hit her, and she twisted as fresh pain ripped through her. She screamed—screamed herself hoarse, screamed until she could feel the back of her throat splintering from the force of it—but there was no sound coming out. She thrashed and turned, pleading wildly, sobbing silently, wishing for anything but this. Anything—_anything_—but this. Having the nails shucked from her fingers, having her tongue severed from her mouth, having paroxysm after paroxysm rock her body—any of these, all of these, would be better than this. Would always be better than this.

The pain stopped as suddenly as it came. Grace shuddered and gasped, trying to collect herself, trying to stop her trembling. She willed herself to rise from the hardwood floor, but she couldn’t summon the strength. Did she even want to get up? No, not really. If it were at all possible, she would have preferred to dissolve into the cracks of the wood, seep into the minuscule fibers of each plank. She would have loved to melt into nonexistence.

“I have need for a Seer.” His eyes studied her shivering form. “But do not presume my need is so great it would leave me blind to the potential repercussions of inviting someone like _you_ into my fold. You do not come from a respected family. You have little to offer me in the way of the Dark Arts. You are but a novice in the realm of Divination.” His wand swished in the air, releasing her from the hold of the Silencing spell. “Tell me—why shouldn’t I just kill you right here and now?”

“It’s—you said—” her tongue felt thick and clumsy, her head was ringing, “—my brother and his wife. You wanted them—to join—I can do that. You said I can do that. I can get them.”

“The best thing you can offer me…” he hummed quietly, “…is your brother and his wife?”

Shame drowned her desperation. She scrambled for something, _anything_, that might save her. “I can—I can—”

“We have already tried to recruit them—alongside Bellatrix’s wayward cousin. They made their answer clear. What makes you think you might succeed where I have not?”

“Because—because—I’m his sister.”

“And from what Bellatrix has told me, you are at odds with him. You were Sorted into separate Houses. You were never close to him. Why should he follow you here?”

There wasn’t a single reason why James should _ever_ follow Grace, and she knew it.

You-Know-Who’s eyes searched her. “The time to recruit members of Dumbledore’s Order has long passed. If we cannot persuade them to switch sides, then we must get rid of them. Do you understand me?”

She nodded numbly. The harsh reality of You-Know-Who’s world began to set in. It was dark and shadowed here, yes, but that did not make it any easier to slip inside. This world was sprung with traps, with sharp tacks and pitfalls. She realized, with a horrible shiver, that anything You-Know-Who had said when Bellatrix was in the room was a trick, was bait, was a test to see how _stupid_ she really was.

“Could you kill your brother?”

“No.”

His eyes flashed. “Why not?”

“Because he’s better than me. He would kill me first.”

She had surprised him. A tense silence settled between them. Grace crept forward cautiously. She had to convince him. There was too much at stake.

“I want to join,” she pleaded. The words fell from her mouth like cinderblocks. “I’m not well-versed in the Dark Arts and I haven’t dueled much. But I can still See. And—and I’m _loyal_. I swear it. I’m loyal. I wouldn’t betray you for anything.”

“For anything?” His voice was quiet but enormous.

“Yes. Yes—anything.”

“What about this?” he asked.

He raised his wand once more, and another burst of red light hit her. She crumpled against the floor. Fire licked at her flesh, at her organs, at her bones. And, somehow, in the midst of this unending pain, she felt something else—a prod at the edge of her mind, a brutal push into her head. Horror gripped Grace. She at last understood what he was trying to do. It was nearly impossible to keep up her shield in the throes of such torture—but she tried anyway. She tried to separate herself from the torment. She tried to latch onto the words Death Eaters spat. _I’m doing this because Muggles are scum._ She tried to believe every lie she ever said. _I’m doing this because Muggle-borns stole magic from us._ Her mind was buckling, but, still, she tried—relentless, stubborn, desperate. _I’m doing this because pure-bloods are better. Will always be better._

But it did not matter how desperate or determined she was. There was a crack in her mask, and You-Know-Who slid right in. At the very center of her mind lay the true reason, and no matter how much she struggled, how much she tried to convince herself of the opposite, how much she tried to smother this reason, how much she tried to drown it and bury it, it still persevered: _I’m doing this for Regulus._

She made one last, vain effort to throw him out. But it was impossible, like blotting the sun out of the sky, like emptying out the sea. The weight of You-Know-Who was unbearable. Her body was turning to ash. Her mind was being crushed.

The whole of her shattered.

_It was the middle of sixth year, just a week after Grace had ignored what she had mistakenly thought was a simple tension headache and collapsed in the middle of Charms. She had begun screaming and fitting—the usual for one of her episodes—and the crowd of students had watched, and watched, and watched…_

_They were still watching. Grace caught the furtive glances and slight distaste in the curl of students’ lips whenever she walked by. Most students didn’t seem to want anything to do with her. They avoided her, shifted away from her whenever she approached, like the magi-neurological disease she had could be contagious._

_Grace was fine with that. She didn’t want anything to do with them either._

_“It’s like I’m with a celebrity,” Dirk commented lightly as they left the library. They hadn’t managed to get much of their project done, what with all the whispering and pointing._

_“You and I have different concepts of what a celebrity is,” Grace grumbled as they veered into the next hallway._

_To her surprise, the path to the stairwell was blocked by a throng of cheering students. Grace frowned as she surveyed the tightly-knit group._

_“What’s going on?”_

_Dirk stood on his tiptoes and craned his neck over the crowd. “Oh, nothing, really. Black’s dueling someone.”_

_Grace rolled her eyes and shouldered her knapsack roughly. “Merlin, why is everyone so obsessed with him? Sirius duels someone new every other day—”_

_“No, it’s the other one.”_

_“He—hold on, what?”_

_“It’s Regulus.”_

_Grace stared at Dirk, bewildered, before shaking her head. “Sorry, I think I just misheard you. It sounded like you said Regulus was dueling someone.”_

_“Yeah…” Dirk said slowly. “Because he is. Dueling someone, that is. Over there.”_

_He pointed lamely at the growing crowd of students. Grace followed his finger, and, without another word, tore into the throng. What in Merlin’s name was Regulus thinking? Dueling out in the open like this? He must have been Confunded or something. He would never—not even if he were being threatened—duel in a Hogwarts corridor in broad daylight, not when a professor could pass by, not when he was obsessed with keeping his record spotless so he could snag Head Boy next year._

_By the time she had managed to pierce through the cluster of students, she found the fight had already ended. Students were being dispersed rapidly by an irate James, who was fluttering over Regulus and the student he had been dueling, a fair-haired boy with sharp eyes and an upturned nose. Neither of them seemed particularly out-of-sorts, although there was an angry red blotch on the fair-haired boy’s cheeks and a singe on the front of Regulus’s robes._

_“Bugger off!” James groaned, flapping his hands at any lingering students._

_Grace stalled by a pillar, uncertain if her presence would help or hurt Regulus in this particular situation._

_“Go on, now! Nothing to see here!” James continued. When the last of the curious students had been scared away, he wheeled around to face the two disarmed boys. “What are you doing?” he hissed._

_“Black attacked me out of nowhere,” the fair-haired boy said immediately. "He followed—”_

_“Jenkins insulted your sister,” Regulus interrupted. “I told him to stop. He wouldn’t.”_

_Jenkins paled. “I didn’t—I didn’t mean it. It was just a bit of fun is all. He didn’t have to hex me for it!”_

_“It was a bit of fun?” James repeated. His eyes were narrowed in distaste at the younger Gryffindor. “Insulting my sister after she’s been stuck in the Hospital Wing for three days is a bit of fun to you? I’ve got to know what else you do for a bit of fun, Jenkins. Steal candy from children? Kick puppies into busy streets?”_

_“Look, it didn’t mean any—”_

_“Fifty points from Gryffindor,” James cut in._

_Jenkins gaped at him. “Fifty—that’s your own House!” _

_“And a fortnight of detention. With Filch. No—wait—with McGonagall.”_

_“A—a fortnight of—” Jenkins sputtered. He jabbed a thumb towards Regulus. “What about him?”_

_“He gets a very begrudging thank you. Now get lost.” _

_“But—but—”_

_“Would you like to duel me, Jenkins? I’m a much more formidable opponent than Black, I guarantee you that.”_

_Jenkins’s lips pressed together tightly. He snatched his wand back from James and threw a spiteful glare in Regulus’s direction before hurtling down the hallway, disappearing from sight. Regulus’s shoulders relaxed._

_James handed Regulus his wand back. “Thanks,” he said begrudgingly._

_Regulus gave a stiff nod, and the two boys separated. As Regulus made his way past the pillar, Grace grabbed onto the back of his robes and drew him to her._

_“You prat,” she said immediately. “Where do you get off doing reckless things like that?”_

_“It wasn’t reckless,” Regulus protested. “I had it planned out very carefully. He’d been spouting nonsense about you since we left Ancient Runes, and I told him if he kept it up I’d duel him.”_

_“You don’t need to duel people for me.”_

_“I know I don’t, but you weren’t there to do it yourself, so the responsibility naturally fell to me.”_

_“I mean—you don’t need to get yourself in trouble over me.” She tried to make herself sound stern, but the words were already coming out half-amused. _

_“I didn’t get in trouble,” he pointed out._

_“Yeah, well James’s favoritism is a different issue entirely. Suppose it wasn’t him who broke up the fight?”_

_“But it was him.”_

_“It… Look—you won’t be picked for Head Boy if you’re dueling random students in the corridor,” she tried half-heartedly._

_There was a smile slipping across Regulus’s face. “I can’t believe you’re the one lecturing me right now. Did that one hour in the library really do that much damage to you?”_

_She rolled her eyes. “Shove off.”_

_Regulus herded her away from the pillar. “Come on—it’s nearly lunchtime.”_

_They set down the hallway in companionable silence. Grace wasn’t upset about the dueling, not really, but suppose Jenkins started going around to different students and telling them that Grace Potter was having her friends hex anyone who badmouthed her? Instead of doing it herself? Merlin, she’d just about die of shame._

_“What did he say?” she asked as they reached the Great Hall._

_“Who?”_

_“Jenkins.”_

_“Nothing worth repeating.”_

_She nudged him with her shoulder. “Come on. I want to know.”_

_He came to a stop and turned to her. “It doesn’t matter what he’s got to say about you because he’s a pillock. Hearing what other people are whispering about you behind your back won’t make you feel better.”_

_Grace swallowed thickly. “It’s just… You don’t understand. People won’t even look at me now, like they’re afraid I might collapse into their arms or I might spread it to them or—or—or even if they do look at me, it’s always with pity and—and—it’s awful!”_

_“It’ll blow over in another week,” he promised._

_“No, it won’t,” she said miserably. _

_His eyes traced over her sullen form. “I won’t tell you what Jenkins said,” he murmured, “but do you want to know what I said to him?”_

_She glanced at him. “What?”_

_“I said, ‘You try going through half of what she has. You try living the life she has. You wouldn’t be able to make it a month. Because she’s much stronger and much cleverer and much better than you could ever hope to be.’”_

_A warm feeling burst in her chest. She smiled at him._

_“And then I shot him with a Stinging Hex.”_

_She snorted._

She was trying to gain control again, trying to veer the memories in a safe direction, but it was so difficult to concentrate. You-Know-Who pushed through the sharp edges of her mind ruthlessly, a wild animal tearing into prey. She could feel herself splintering, could feel the memories breaking and reforming, and—and—under the shards of the past was something else entirely.

_The moon was little more than an ember in the sky. The whole of the forest was shrouded in pitch black. Cloaked figures searched through the nearby thicket nervously. They raised their wands, flooding the area with white light._

_A figure leapt from the brush. He was tall, with broad shoulders and a thick torso. His hair was dirty and matted against his scalp. His eyes were as dark as the night and strangely elongated. His ears were pointed. His nose was little more than a snub, pushed against his face. He did not seem entirely human. He certainly didn’t act human; there was a wild, feral quality to him._

_“What do you want?” he snarled. “I already told your lot to fuck off!”_

_The nearest wizards yelped and retreated, further away from the edge of the forest, until they were back under the protection of the man who had led them here—a towering wizard with bone-white skin and blood-red eyes._

_“It was my mistake the last negotiation fell through,” the wizard said. “I did not think the envoys I sent would be so…incompetent.”_

_The disheveled man across from him sneered. “And you thought I’d be more than happy to talk to you, is it?” _

_“I have ways of forcing your cooperation if you will not give it willingly.”_

_The threat hung heavy in the air. The filthy man trembled with fury._

_“You think you can just order me around?” he roared. “Torture me if you want. You don’t know how many of us are here. Curse me, and you’ll have a dozen of us on you within seconds. You’ll be one of us before you know it.”_

_“There are only four of you here.”_

_The man’s rage dropped in surprise. It was quickly replaced with a scowl. “You don’t—”_

_“I do.” The wizard revealed his wand from the depths of his robes and twirled it through his long fingers. “We need not be enemies, Greyback. We can help one another.”_

_“No good ever came from helping a wizard.”_

_“What if the wizard in question has the same goal as you?”_

_Greyback’s black eyes flickered over the wizard. “What do you mean?”_

_“Do not take this to mean you and I are the same.” His lips curled in revulsion as he took in Greyback’s sullied state. “But, as it stands, our plans align. I want to usurp the wizarding world. You are welcome to join the crusade. You will only be helping yourself.”_

_“I won’t be a wizard’s servant.”_

_“You will not be a servant. You will be a soldier. You will fight with our kind to help destroy our kind.”_

_The thought appealed to him. A hungry, wolfish smile overcame his features. “Alright—but I want something, too. I won’t just fight. If we’re overthrowing the wizarding world, there’s something I want to collect in the process.”_

_“What is it you want?”_

_“Children.”_

_It was fifth year. Grace had initially been very excited for O.W.L.-level Divination, but she had soon found that the advanced techniques Vablatsky was teaching her were rather boring. The latest one involved nothing more than staring at a blank piece of paper and trying to imitate that ‘blankness’ in her own head._

_Most of the branches of Divination weren’t very exciting. Last year, Vablatsky had introduced Grace to the realm of geomancy, which was a fancy way of saying she did nothing more than trace patterns in dirt for hours on end. But this—this blank sheet of parchment—was far worse._

_Grace let out a quiet sigh of relief when the grandfather clock in the far corner chimed, signaling the end of class. She hurriedly gathered her materials into her knapsack and bolted towards the trapdoor. But before she could make it, she was stopped._

_“How has your progress been, Grace?”_

_Grace’s shoulders fell. She turned around and found Vablatsky, perfectly serene, her pale blue eyes twinkling under the sparse light, approaching her._

_“Er—good.”_

_“No difficulties?”_

_Grace shrugged half-heartedly. “I mean—it’s just staring at paper. Not very difficult, if you ask me.”_

_Vablatsky’s eyes lingered on her student. “You’re displeased with me.”_

_“What? No,” Grace waved off, but she sounded unconvincing even to herself. She debated quietly with herself before finally throwing caution to the wind and bursting, “I know you said it’s important to cultivate focus, but isn’t there another way to do that? One that does involve wasting an hour staring at nothing?”_

_“Well…”_

_She leaned forward eagerly. “Yes…?”_

_“No, there isn’t another way.”_

_She groaned in disappointment._

_“But, if you master this, I will teach you acultomancy.”_

_“What’s that?”_

_“Divination using needles.”_

_Her brows shot up. “What? Really? We get to poke people with needles?”_

_Vablatsky frowned slightly. “No. You merely gather needles and drop them on special surfaces. The divinatory aspect lies in being able to read and interpret any patterns that may appear.”_

_“No offense, professor, but that sounds pretty boring, too.”_

Dimly, she felt the searing hurt of the Cruciatus retreat. She wished she could summon the strength to force out You-Know-Who, but she could hardly feel her limbs. She could hardly feel her mind. It was being pulled in a thousand and one directions.

_It was fourth year. Everyone else was huddled in pairs, scrying with enchanted mirrors. Grace, unfortunately, was barred from taking part in this particular method of Divination, on account of her condition. She was cloistered away near the back of the room, thumbing through her textbook, bored out of her mind._

_“Thinking hard?”_

_Grace whipped around, and found Vablatsky making her way to the little corner. The ancient witch seemed rather bored herself. She sat down heavily in the chair across from Grace’s and carefully adjusted the many bangles adorning her wrists._

_“I just didn’t realize how long an hour can be when you don’t have anything to do.”_

_“What do you mean?” Vablatsky said, alarmed. “Just because you cannot scry doesn’t mean you cannot divine using other methods.” She reached into the depths of her robes and pulled out a familiar pack of cards. “Here—shall I do a reading for you?”_

_Grace perked up and nodded. She watched with fascination as Vablatsky spread and shuffled the cards swiftly. She fanned the deck out between her hands and offered them to Grace. The younger witch quickly picked out three and laid them against the table: eight of swords, king of wands, ten of pentacles. _

_“What were you thinking of?”_

_Grace shifted in her seat. “Well—er—I was just wondering if…” She took a deep breath. “I wanted to know if I’d ever be cured.”_

_Vablatsky frowned as she surveyed the cards. She stayed quiet for several moments._

_“Er—professor?” Grace pressed._

_She glanced up, startled. “Oh, yes—my apologies. This one is… Well, it says…”_

_“Yes?” Grace said anxiously._

_“It will get worse before it gets better.”_

_They levitated the bound man onto the long, wooden table in the center of the parlor. He scrambled across the surface, trying to right himself, trying to kick away the many Death Eaters that flocked over him._

_“Would you like to do the honors, my Lord?”_

_The shaggy-haired man made a low, choked-off sound in the back of his throat, and attempted to scurry away from the table. He only managed to move an inch or so before one of the surrounding wizards incapacitated him._

_“No. Leave him for now.”_

_The excited chatter came to a halt._

_“Leave him?” _

_“Yes—but cover his face first. We will deal with him when the others arrive.”_

_She was in Vablatsky’s backroom, a tight little space hidden behind her classroom. She had been invited over for afternoon tea, and while the conversation had started off lighthearted enough, it had soon devolved into a mess of uncertainty on Grace’s part._

_“I just feel like I’m just getting worse and worse at this,” Grace lamented. “I’ll be honest, professor, I don’t think I’m cut out for Seeing.”_

_Vablatsky smiled gently over the rim of her teacup. “My dear,” she assured, “you have great potential.”_

_Grace chomped viciously on a ginger biscuit. “But I haven’t had a real vision since that one time in first year—and that wasn’t even a vision. It was a menu!”_

_“Would it help if I told you what the key to becoming a great Seer is?”_

_Grace’s noisy chewing stopped. She stared at Vablatsky. “Yeah, that would help a lot! What is it?”_

_“Never doubt yourself.”_

None of this was what You-Know-Who wanted to see. He surged past these trivial memories, ripping further into the annals of her mind.

_Yaxley loomed over her. His eyes, pale as ice, pierced her sharply. “If you’d like to keep your tongue,” he spat, “I suggest you stop using it.”_

_Every fiber of her burned with rage. Quick as a flash, she pressed the tip of her wand against the base of Yaxley’s throat. “Threaten me again, and I’ll hex you within an inch of your life.”_

_“Hex me?” Yaxley said. “You have no idea who you’re dealing with, you insolent little b—”_

_“Stop.” Regulus’s voice was so tight and curt that Grace didn’t think he had said the word at all. But he did. He did, and he wasn’t even looking at her. He did, and his hand was around Yaxley’s shoulder, pulling him away. “She’s not worth it.”_

_Something in her fractured. _

_“Follow me, Bellatrix.”_

_He brought them to a secluded little room by one of the many parlors in the manor. Bellatrix followed keenly, a smug little smile gracing her lips as she entered the candlelit room._

_“What is it, my Lord?”_

_He settled into one of the armchairs. “That prophecy… It has been weighing on my mind. What did you make of it?”_

_“It seems you will succeed in your mission, my Lord. You will begin a legacy far greater than anything the world has ever seen.”_

_“You take it as an endorsement? Not as a warning?”_

_She frowned. “A…warning?”_

_“Yes.” He glanced at her. “I feel I must make a decisive choice—one that you will be a part of.”_

_“I would be honored to assist you, my Lord.”_

_He hummed in approval._

_She was in a classroom. Faint wisps of silver swirled around her. Across from her was Ophelia Greengrass, auburn hair shining like copper, lips twisted into a pitying frown._

_“If he’s abandoned you, then there’s no point lending him another moment’s thought, is there?”_

_Grace’s head snapped up. “No,” she said automatically, reflexively. “No—that’s not right. There’s more to this. He wouldn’t just…”_

_She didn’t know what she was trying to say. Ophelia continued to look at her with that knowing glint in her eye, chin lifted, brows raised loftily. She did not understand. _

_“You don’t know him,” Grace said at last, “not like I know him.”_

_They were in a long, shadowed hallway. A lean man with platinum blond hair cowered before the taller, red-eyed wizard in front of him._

_“You cannot stop them?”_

_“No, my Lord.”_

_The red-eyed man made a displeased sound in the back of the throat. The blond man jumped in alarm._

_“But—but we can move what you’ve given me,” he added desperately. “My wife still has access to her family home. There are a number of—”_

_“That is a foolhardy move. They will have anticipated this.” He turned away from the other man. “He has figured me out. I do not know how…but he knows.”_

_The blond man leaned forward in interest. “Knows what, my Lord?”_

_He cast a disinterested glance at the man before him. “It matters not. There is still a way out of this. I have a task for you.”_

_“Anything, my Lord.”_

_“Fetch me Wormtail.”_

_They were in the Room. It had taken the form of a small library. The torchlights were faint—pinpricks of light in the swelling shadows of the room. Some terrible, roiling mixture of hurt and guilt sat in Grace’s chest._

_“What will it take?”_

_She frowned. “What?”_

_“What will it take for you to give up?” Regulus’s eyes were as soft and grey as ash. “What will it take for you to hate me?”_

_Her mouth snapped shut. She did not know if she could ever hate him._

No. No—she couldn’t allow him to see this. She tried to skip over these memories, tried to bring them back to something safer. He could not see anything that involved Regulus.

_It was third year, and Grace was getting tired of forcing down Vablatsky’s awful tea. She glanced around the classroom surreptitiously before dumping it into the planter behind her. _

_“You ought to stop doing that,” the girl across from her scolded._

_Grace scowled at her. “Why?”_

_“You’re killing that poor plant.”_

_He screamed in rage. The cluster of dark-robed witches and wizards cowered before him. _

_“My Lord, forgive me! Mercy—please, my—”_

_“CRUCIO!”_

_It was second year. She was in the kitchens, stuffing her face with apple pie. Faint tear tracks glistened down her cheeks. _

_“I’m sure he didn’t mean it,” Regulus tried gently._

_“He said I was a snake!” she said hotly. “Just because I’m in Slytherin! It’s not—it’s not fair. He always does this! He did it during summer, too, even though Mum and Dad told him not to!”_

_“He just says it because he knows it bothers you.”_

_“It doesn’t matter! He still—”_

It did not matter. It did not matter how many dull, useless memories she threw his way. He knew there was one she was trying desperately to hide, and he would not rest until he reached it.

_There was a crack in the door. A dagger of light pierced through the dark of the room, lighting the back of the lone boy’s robes._

_“You called for me, my Lord?”_

_The glow of the hearth flared behind his head like a halo. He gave her a tender smile, and she felt a warmth wash over her._

_“I can’t believe you came up with all this just for me.”_

_“Regulus—”_

_“Regulus—”_

_“—I require a house-elf.”_

_“—I would go to the ends of the earth for you.”_

And with that last surge of pure affection—that last shred of goodness—she felt You-Know-Who withdraw from her mind. Her eyes caught his as she was thrust back into the present, into reality, and she was struck by the raw red of his eyes. They seemed brighter than before. Crueler. It reminded Grace of the red rash of her mother’s illness, of the scorching red of desert sand, of dying embers, of every terrible thing on this earth—of death.

_No, no, no_… The word tore through her heart relentlessly. A flood of guilt and regret drowned her. She had not practiced enough, had not cared enough, had not listened enough, had been caught in the mess of herself, and now You-Know-Who had found her out. Now she would be killed—and without ever saving Regulus, without ever telling James. _No, no, no._ It was all over. She had ruined herself.

She lifted herself from the floor, but her arms gave out almost immediately. She had known pain her whole life. She had stumbled down stairs and scraped her knees. She had been cursed with raging headaches and violent seizures. But none of that compared to the Cruciatus. None of her old wounds or aches had ever stuck to her limbs like the torture You-Know-Who had inflicted. She tried to gather herself once more, but she only managed to twist her body over. She lifted her head, and her eyes briefly met You-Know-Who’s again. His eyes flashed with disgust, as if Grace were nothing more than some cockroach writhing on the ground, waiting to be stamped and swept away.

“How sentimental,” he sneered. “How foolish.”

She stilled, eyes fixed on his form. He was not angry, just repulsed, just…disappointed. He was looking down at her like her blood had suddenly become less pure, like she was nothing more than dirt beneath his feet, like she had shown him that she was less than she actually was. And within this revulsion of his, Grace realized something: You-Know-Who had not found her out, because he had not understood what he’d seen.

He had seen Regulus through her eyes. He had seen Regulus’s gentle hands and tender smile and soft eyes. He had seen the way Grace had chased after Regulus—desperate, falling all over herself just to be near him. He had seen her desire and devotion. He had seen her love—bright and burning—at every corner of every memory with Regulus, and he did not understand it. He thought the only reason she had come here was to follow after Regulus.

Grace remembered the way Bellatrix had knelt in front of You-Know-Who, the way she had clawed at the hem of his robes, the way she had looked up at him—eyes dazed and shining. That was the sort of love You-Know-Who understood—blind devotion—but it was not the love Grace held. A devotion like Bellatrix’s was like water. It was precious. It was pliable. It was fought over. It would be taken greedily, guzzled down. It could not hurt the person it was given to.

But what Grace had could hurt.

Grace’s love was little more than an inferno. It was not weak or pitiful. It was terrifying—how quickly her love could consume, how swiftly it could reduce everything to ash. She loved Regulus enough to withstand torture. She loved him enough to hurt her own brother. She loved him enough to scream at him and cut him off. If You-Know-Who believed Grace wasn’t a threat simply because she was _in love_, then he was the fool, not her. Grace was at her most dangerous when she was in love.

“You would put your life at risk on a whim?” You-Know-Who said disparagingly. “Simply to follow after some weak-willed boy?”

She could feel every hard beat of her heart against her chest. She had been given one last chance. She could not ruin this.

“Regulus has told me that this is the future. That—that what you’re doing will shape the wizarding world for generations to come. I believe him. I want to join. I want to be with him. I just—” her voice cracked, warbled, “—want to be with him.”

“You are pitiful.”

It was the first time Grace had ever been happy to be insulted. _Pitiful_ was a good thing to be in You-Know-Who’s world. What was pitied could never be considered a threat. What was pitied was passed over, was quickly forgotten, was safe.

“But you have some use for me,” You-Know-Who continued. “You will See for me.”

“Yes,” Grace agreed immediately. _Anything, anything._ “Yes, my Lord.”

“You will not make contact with anyone in Dumbledore’s Order unless it is on my instructions. Regulus Black will be responsible for you. If it is found your loyalties do not lie with me, _both_ of you will suffer the consequences. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

You-Know-Who held her gaze for what felt like eons before finally saying, “Give me your arm.”

She shambled along the floor and gave him her left hand. He dug the tip of his white wand into her wrist. A dark, inky black slithered from the tip of it, sinking deep into the smooth gold of her arm. She hissed quietly as it seared against her skin, like poison slipping into her veins. The dark tendrils of the spell climbed up and up, until it reached her forearm, and slowly shifted and settled into a familiar shape: a curving snake and a jagged skull.

“Welcome.” His voice was chilling. In the red of his eyes, Grace saw fire and blood. “You are one of us now.”

* * *

Regulus was pacing in front of the Falmouth house when she arrived. As soon as she appeared over the hilltop, the setting sun flaring behind her, washing her in gold, Regulus turned and ran to her. He met her halfway, hair flurried, grey eyes anxious, the skin of lip bitten raw and red.

“What happened?” he asked, folding her into him. “Did you actually meet—”

“Yeah,” she said hoarsely.

She lifted her left arm and pulled up the sleeve, showing him the inky black of the Dark Mark. Regulus stared at it for a long moment before gently pulling the sleeve of her robe back down. He didn’t say anything, and neither did she. They completed the rest of the walk to the summer home in silence. As soon as they crossed through the door, Grace threw down her cloak and collapsed into the pull-out, savoring the feel of something other than hardwood under her body.

Regulus perched beside her. “How do you feel?”

“Like I was hit with the Cruciatus three times.”

His eyes nearly bugged out of his head. “Like you were—what? What do you mean? What happened?”

“I was hit with the Cruciatus three times.”

His face went ashen. “You were…you mean _actually_ cursed with—”

“Yeah,” she said flatly. “Can we not make a big deal out of this?”

“_Not make a big deal_—” he wheezed.

“It’s awful when you’re experiencing it—worse than anything I’ve ever felt—but after it’s over, it’s sort of just like a paroxysm.” She settled deeper into the pull-out. “The throbbing and aching. It’s not so bad anymore.”

“Not so bad?” Regulus repeated, voice tight and choked. “You endured an Unforgivable _three_ times. You—”

“Yeah, I know, Regulus. I was there.” She kneaded her temples with her fingers. “Do you mind getting me some Draught of Peace? There should be a vial in my trunk. I nicked some from the cottage before I left.”

He darted towards her trunk and rummaged around for a minute or two before emerging with the vial and handing it to Grace. The shimmering potion swayed within the confines of the bottle. Grace uncorked it and swallowed down the whole thing in one go. She let out a breath of relief as the worst of the aches faded from her limbs. She stretched out her feet and let her head loll back against the couch.

“Better?” Regulus asked, sitting beside her.

She nodded. Her eyes flickered over the smooth ceiling. “Do you want me to tell you what happened?”

“Only if you can. If you want to.”

She wanted to. She started from the very beginning, from when Bellatrix had Apparated them to the lush grounds of that large, white manor. (_Malfoy Manor_, Regulus recalled. _Narcissa lives there with her husband._) She recounted how Bellatrix had forced her to kneel before You-Know-Who and all the questions You-Know-Who had asked her and how You-Know-Who had realized she was using Occlumency and how he dove deep into her mind, deeper than either of them had ever gone in the Room, deeper than Grace thought was humanly possible. (_Visions?_ Regulus had said in a strangled voice when Grace mentioned she had Seen something between the memories, although she couldn’t remember what. _You’re not supposed to have visions._) When she was at last done, Regulus was staring emptily at the wooden floor, face pale and withdrawn, hands clasped tightly together.

“This is bad. This is so, so bad,” Regulus rattled to himself. “I mean—as awful as what happened to you today was—it was still _lucky_. Impossibly, horribly _lucky_. I can’t believe he got into your head and—and—_still_ let you join. I can’t believe he didn’t realize. This is… This is mental. This is just…”

On and on Regulus went, the words pouring out of his mouth like a torrent. Grace lay beside him, still as stone, eyes flickering to a close. She was too spent to lend Regulus any attention, too tired to even begin to untangle his worry. She only knew that he was right. This was mental, but what could they do about it now? If Grace could have aborted the plan, she would have. She would have done it after the first hit of Cruciatus. She had realized, then, how real this was. How dark it was. But she had been trapped in that moment, and convincing You-Know-Who—_joining_ him—was the only way to escape.

“—oh, Salazar!” Regulus yelped suddenly. “What if he _did_ realize? What if he knows and he’s just stringing you along, waiting for the right moment? What if—”

“Regulus,” she sighed.

He turned to her, and his face was so distraught, his eyes were so wide and pitiful, his lips were pulled into such a dreadful pout, that she couldn’t find it in herself to snap at him and tell him to shut it. She turned away and leaned further into the pull-out.

“I’m hungry,” she finished after a moment.

Kreacher was called, and as the old house-elf bustled around the kitchen, Grace settled deeper into the pull-out, winding her blanket around herself. Regulus was still perched on the edge of the couch, rigid as ever, anxiously wringing his hands, deep in thought. The moment was only broken when a sharp rapping came from the window. Grace startled, and Regulus rose like a whip, wand already out.

“It’s an owl,” she said, frowning as she caught sight of a pair of speckled wings flapping outside the window. “I thought you put up wards?”

Regulus strolled towards the window. “Yes, but only the basic ones. I can’t make this area undetectable. Suppose a Death Eater wants to send you an owl?”

“You can’t be serious,” Grace protested as Regulus opened the window and let the owl in. “Am I really going to get letters from Death Eaters? What in Merlin’s name are they going to send me? Don’t tell me you lot have got a weekly newsletter going on or something. If I’ve got to read think pieces on—er—Regulus, are you alright?”

He was staring at the letter the owl had delivered. “It’s for me,” he said, voice fragile and hollow. “From Dumbledore.”

Grace shot out of her seat and bounded over to him. She stared at the letter clutched tightly in his hands. He was not mistaken. Written with green ink, clear as day, was his name. Underneath it was the Hogwarts insignia.

“You don’t know it’s from Dumbledore,” she said weakly. “It could just be from Slughorn. Maybe he’s got a Slug Club party planned for the first day back.”

Regulus shook his head numbly. “No—it’s from the Headmaster’s desk. It’s got the stamp.” He pointed to a little symbol on the corner of the envelope, and then looked to Grace. “He’s found me out. Dumbledore’s found me out. Oh—oh, Salazar. Oh, _fuck_. He knows, and he’s—”

“You don’t _know_ that he—”

“Why else would he send me a letter out of the blue?” Regulus argued. “He’s _never_ sent me a letter before. It’s always been Slughorn or McGonagall whenever it’s something school-related. That means that this is a _personal_ matter. That means—”

“You’re working yourself up over something that could be nothing,” Grace cut in sharply. “Why don’t you _read_ the letter—”

“I can’t just read this!” Regulus said shrilly, waving the envelope in front of him. “This is going to be a summons to the Wizengamot! How can I just open and _read_—”

Grace plucked the envelope from his hand and tore it open. She took out the single piece of parchment and unfolded it.

> _Dear Mr. Black,_
> 
> _I am pleased to inform you that you have been selected to serve as Head Boy for the remainder of the term. Unfortunately, our previous Head Boy cannot return to Hogwarts. You have been chosen to take up the mantle due to your dedication to scholastic endeavors, your thoughtful and thorough nature, and your impeccable record as a Prefect for Slytherin._
> 
> _Upon your return to Hogwarts, you will meet with me in my office along with the Head Girl to go over your responsibilities and expectations. Enclosed is your Head Boy badge, which should be worn on your robes at all times. Congratulations!_
> 
> _Sincerely,  
_ _Albus Dumbledore  
_ _Headmaster_
> 
> _The Office of Albus Dumbledore  
_ _(Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chief Warlock,  
_ _Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. of Wizards)_

Grace stared at the letter in shock. Her eyes flickered back to the envelope. She reached inside and, sure enough, there was a badge.

“Well?” Regulus said anxiously.

“Congratulations.” She took the badge out and handed it to him. It flashed bright under the torchlight. “You’re the new Head Boy.”

“I—you mean—_what_?”

He grabbed the letter and read it ferociously. When he reached the end, he read it again. And then a third time. When he was at last satisfied, he looked up at Grace in a daze and gingerly took the pin from her hands. His fingers traced over the emerald green lacquer.

“I can’t believe this,” he breathed.

Grace gnawed at her lower lip. “What do you think happened?”

“What?”

“To Dirk,” she clarified. “What happened that he’s not coming back?”

“I don’t know. He probably went into hiding.”

“Hiding?” Grace repeated. “But why now? It’s not like—wait… Do you know if your Death Eater lot have gone down to Tutshill?”

“First of all, it’s _our_ Death Eater lot now,” he said. “Second…I don’t know. Maybe. If it’s got a heavy Muggle presence, probably.” 

She gnawed at her lip. “They probably did. That’d be the only reason he wouldn’t come back—if something happened to him. If…”

Her stomach curdled at the idea of Dirk enduring torture at the hands of the Death Eaters. She had only endured the Cruciatus three times. Dirk would have been hit with the curse far more, and with no chance of rest or respite between rounds.

She didn’t realize she was reaching for a spare roll of parchment until Regulus stopped her.

“You can’t write him,” he said.

“Why not?”

“Because if you write him a letter here, you’ll have to use my owl. And if my owl is intercepted or being watched by one of our lot, it’ll be _very_ hard to explain why we were sending a letter to a Muggle-born asking if he’s okay.”

“I can’t _not_ write Dirk,” Grace said fiercely. “He could be in trouble!”

“You can write him once we’re back at Hogwarts,” Regulus assured. “You only have to wait a day. Then, you can use a Hogwarts owl and write him. Okay?”

She sat down heavily on the pull-out. “Okay,” she said, even though it wasn’t. She threw her head back and traced the curve of the ceiling. “I can’t believe you’re Head Boy.”

He sat down beside her, rolling the badge between his hands. “Me either. I didn’t think that—I mean, after Kennedy left, I thought maybe I’d have a shot. But then Cresswell was chosen… And now… Merlin, this is—this is…”

“Bad,” she finished for him.

Regulus turned to her in surprise. “Bad? But if I’m Head Boy, it’ll be easier for us. This means Dumbledore doesn’t suspect.”

“Regulus, do you _honestly_ believe Dumbledore chose you because of your track record?”

Hurt flashed across his face. “What do you mean? Why wouldn’t he?”

“Because—okay, _look_—yes, you’re a wonderful student. You got all O’s on your O.W.L.s and you’re respectful to teachers and whatnot. You’re the perfect student. But _surely_ Dumbledore has noticed the company you’ve been keeping. He must have noticed that you were hanging around Yaxley and Rosier more than me.”

“I’m not sure I mean enough for Dumbledore to pay such close attention to me.”

“Are you certain? Sirius is a part of his Order. What if he asked Dumbledore to keep an eye on you?”

“That’s impossible. That’s—” he shook his head wildly, “—if it turns out Sirius is _concerned_ about me, I’ll eat my left shoe, Grace. When has he ever asked about me?”

Realization hit her like a lightning bolt. “During holiday! He asked me about you when he was dropping me off at—”

“He did _what_?”

“—the Potter cottage, and if he asked _me_, he must have asked others! And I overheard him at the tea shop at St. Mungo’s, too. He thinks you might be a Death Eater—”

“He thinks _what_?”

“—and if he told it to James and the others, he _must_ have told Dumbledore, too.” Grace’s brain was in overdrive. “And if Dumbledore knows all of this, then _of course_ he’d make you Head Boy. What better way to keep an eye on you when you’re meeting with him or McGonagall every other day? How can you be expected to carry out your nefarious Death Eater activities when you’re supposed to be organizing patrols and handing out detentions and—and—I don’t really know what else it is Head Boys do… Er—make the lunch menu?”

The badge fell from Regulus’s hands and clattered against the floor. “Oh, Salazar,” he said faintly. “You’re right. I can’t—I can’t go back to Hogwarts! He’ll be watching my every move. He’ll—”

“You have to go back to Hogwarts, Regulus.”

“_How_?” he cried out. “_How_ can I go back if Dumbledore is on my case? This is horrible. This is a nightmare.”

“It’ll be okay—”

“No, it won’t!” he said with mounting hysteria.

“—because you just have to fool him until we convince James to let us into the Order as spies. You just have to not draw attention to yourself until then. Once we’re on the same side as Dumbledore, we won’t have anything to worry about.”

Regulus deflated. “We’ll only be fine so long as I manage to fool Dumbledore and you manage to fool You-Know-Who.”

She nodded. “Exactly. See? The plan is coming together.”

“It’s not. It’s decidedly not coming together. How can I be expected to mislead Dumbledore? He’s one of the greatest wizards that ever lived.” Regulus collapsed heavily beside Grace. “And we still don’t know how _you’re_ going to manage to convince You-Know-Who that you can See.”

“We’ll figure it out. You-Know-Who didn’t seem particularly concerned about my Seeing abilities, just whether or not I was—” _a traitor_, “—a liability. Maybe I can get away with reporting false visions, or maybe he won’t even ask.” She shifted against him, pushing herself deeper into the cushion of the pull-out. “What we’ve got to do now is the hardest part—just wait. Wait to find out something useful to pass on to the Order. And then I’ll find James, and we’ll apologize to each other, and I’ll explain everything to him. And then James will vouch for me to the Order. And then I’ll vouch for you. And then we’re saved.”

She had this all planned out in her head, like she was an actor going over her lines. _Wait a while. Find out something useful. Go to James. Spy for the Order. Save Regulus._ She dreamt about this sequence at night: the anxious tap of fingers, the listening, ears pressed against doors, the gleam of the Death Eaters’ silver-lined masks, how James might take the news, how they would fall into one another, apologizing, weeping, taking the other into their arms, how the Order would react, exultant and joyful, how relieved Regulus would be when this was all over. _Wait. Find. James. Spy. Save._ These five words seemed to dictate the whole of her life; they consumed her. These were the five most important words Grace knew.

“Are you sure?” Regulus asked.

“Don’t you trust me?”

The answer came immediately: “Of course.”

She smiled at him and took his hand in her own. “It’s going to go exactly like I said, Regulus. I promise you. In a month, this’ll all be over. We’ll be saved.”

He held her gaze for a long moment—silver bleeding into gold, the moon dancing across from the sun—before nodding.

“We’ll be saved,” he agreed, and leaned towards her.

He kissed her, and it was like flower petals brushing against her lips, the soft melt of snow curling against her flesh. He kissed her, and she calmed, for a moment, stilled under those tender hands. He kissed her, and she did not think of the dark tomb her parents were sleeping in. She did not think of the break in atmosphere when she Apparated away from James. She did not think of her own grief, large as it was, or the phantom aches running down her limbs from the torture she endured, or how on earth she was supposed to convince You-Know-Who she could See.

She did not think of any of that. Instead, she thought of Regulus, and—slowly, steadily—her heart softened and relaxed. If she could get him out of this alive, then all of this would be worth it. If they had a chance now, then how could she regret anything she had ever done?

_Wait. Find. James. Spy. Save._


	12. Run

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Regulus finds himself buckling under the pressure of Quidditch, classes, Head Boy duties, and being a Death Eater.

“And where are you going?”

Regulus froze in place, trunk screeching to a halt behind him. Seventeen years and he still couldn’t help the surge of panic that spiked from his stomach at the sound of that voice—sharp, stinging, word made into whip. If Sirius were here, Regulus imagined he would scoff and continue on his way.

But Regulus was not Sirius. He had been reminded of this fact nearly every day of his existence.

“Well?” Mother demanded.

Regulus turned around, stiff and weary. “I’m going to King’s Cross.”

Her eyes, dark and bottomless as an abyss, flickered down to his trunk and then back to him. She drew herself up to her full height, stretching herself out until she seemed thinner than she really was. “It’s early,” she said at last, each word drenched with suspicion.

Regulus had, thankfully, prepared for this. “I’m meeting Rosier and Yaxley before we head on the train,” he recited effortlessly. “We have matters to discuss on behalf of the Dark Lord.”

Her lips thinned. “I see.”

With that, she turned and disappeared down the dark hallway, shadows swallowing her whole. Mother had slowly become less and less enthused about Regulus’s involvement with the Death Eaters. (It had begun around the time Bellatrix first made headlines for murdering a Muggle family in Liverpool. It was all fine and dandy when witches and wizards simply _talked_ about eradicating Muggle filth, of course. But when it came down to getting your hands dirty—why, that was a different issue entirely.) Now, just the mere mention of You-Know-Who was enough to send her to an entirely different room.

Regulus stalled by the doorway for a moment. Mother had never been particularly affectionate, but he usually received some sort of goodbye, although “goodbye” was a rather kind word to label the warnings his mother fed him before the start of term. _Don’t you dare dishonor our name like your brother did_ could hardly be thought of as a goodbye—but it was the sort of goodbye Regulus had come to expect.

Except for today. Regulus seemed to have done too good a job at driving his mother away. Sighing, he shifted a drowsy Cliodna to his other arm and swung open the front door of number 12 Grimmauld Place. He dragged his trunk down the front steps hurriedly. As soon as his dragon-leather oxfords hit the cracked pavement, Regulus’s hand tightened around the handle of his trunk and he Apparated away.

In a matter of seconds, he appeared by the rocky shore of Falmouth. His trunk thudded against the dark rock that splattered across the shore. Cliodna jumped from his arms, the journey having startled her awake, and took to the ground. Regulus fished his acacia wand out of his pocket and levitated his trunk. He began the long climb up to the Potter summer home, Cliodna trotting behind him dutifully. He hoped Grace wouldn’t be cross with him for showing up out of the blue. They hadn’t made any plans to head to the platform together, but Regulus hadn’t been able to sleep last night. He had spent hours and hours in bed, tossing and turning, staring at the rich green of his canopy, thoughts of Dumbledore and You-Know-Who and Death Eaters filling his head. Somewhere in the midst of it all, he’d realized that today would be the first day Grace wouldn’t have any family to drop her off at King’s Cross. And although she would never admit it out loud, Regulus knew that it would bother her endlessly if she went to the station alone.

So, here he was.

He reached the hilltop in a matter of minutes. From beyond the door of the summer home, he could hear the faint banging and clanging of drawers and cabinet drawers. Hesitantly, Regulus raised a hand and knocked.

The noises stilled. The door opened a crack, and he caught a glimpse of Grace—a sliver of dark hair and a hazel eye. As soon as she caught sight of him, the door burst open and she latched onto him, tugging him inside, smiling fully. Regulus’s heart thrummed with warmth. It had only been a day since he last saw her, but that day might as well have been a year with how long it stretched on.

“I didn’t know you were coming today!” Her voice was bright, laced with surprise and sweetness. Her hands were still wrapped around his, and Regulus hoped they would never part. But then Cliodna lazed over and pawed at the hem of Grace’s robes. She let go of Regulus and crouched down to pick up the needling cat. “Hullo, Clio—did you Apparate with Reg?”

Regulus followed after Grace, sticking close to her side. The house he had so carefully put right only a couple of days ago was in complete disarray again. Pots and pans spilled from the kitchen cabinets. The pillows adorning the pull-out lay on the floor. Half of Grace’s school robes were in her trunk while the other half were laid on the dining table.

“Salazar, what happened?”

She let out a disgruntled groan. “I can’t find any of my textbooks. You must’ve put them somewhere when you cleaned the other day. I’ve turned the whole house upside down looking—”

Regulus crossed over to the bookcase on the other side of the living room and pulled out Grace’s textbooks. “I put them here. In the bookshelf. Where the books belong.”

She faltered. “Okay, _fine_. You win this round.”

He snorted softly and proceeded to help her collect the rest of her belongings. With a quick wave of her wand, everything was packed (somewhat messily) into her trunk. As she hauled the chest towards the front door, Regulus busied himself in the house, waving his wand furiously, levitating kitchen utensils back into their rightful cupboards and tidying the pull-out bed.

“Reg,” Grace called out exasperatedly from the open door. “It’s okay. You don’t have to fix it.”

Regulus’s wand hand wavered mid-swish, causing the pillows to settle themselves at the foot of the pull-out instead of the head. He turned to Grace, scandalized. “You can’t just leave the house in this state.”

“I can, and I will.”

“It’ll attract Doxies.”

“Well, that’s what Doxycide is for.” She waited patiently for him to lower his wand. When he didn’t, she sighed and added, “Regulus, if you stay to clean up the house, you’re going to miss the train.”

It was the only thing she could have said to get him to stop. Regulus shoved his wand into his pocket and strode away from the mess. “Oh, fine—but you can’t complain when you return for Easter and find you have to deep clean the whole house.”

She scoffed. “I’m _not_ returning here for Easter. James and I will have made up by then, and I’ll be going back to Godric’s Hollow, thank Merlin.” She cast one last glance back at the house as she crossed through the door. “It gets drafty here at night. Even the Slytherin dormitory is better than this.”

She started down the hill, trunk dragging against the ground behind her, Cliodna balanced haphazardly in the crook of her elbow. Regulus started after her, albeit at a slower pace. He knew he should have been more elated at hearing Grace announce that she would have made up with her brother by Easter…but he found himself feeling unexpectedly letdown. The feeling had nothing to do with James. It was the thought of Grace returning to Godric’s Hollow.

While the past few days had certainly been stressful and nerve-racking, there had been the rare, quiet moment of rest and relaxation. The Potter summer home was out of the way, at the edge of a little-known town, forgotten and pushed aside by the sands of time. The only people who visited it were Regulus and Grace. It was something of a refuge, a place where Regulus was free to pace and think for hours on end, where Grace could curl up against Regulus’s side on the pull-out, where they could tease each other over a hastily-made meal in the slipshod kitchen. 

None of this would be possible when she returned to Godric’s Hollow.

By the time they reached the bottom of the hill, past the anti-Apparition wards, Regulus was filled with such longing and nostalgia that he found himself missing Grace all over again even though she was right next to him.

He reached out a hand once they stopped and asked, “Do you want to Side-Along?”

It was a completely unnecessary offer. They could each Apparate perfectly well on their own, and it might have been better to do so by themselves. Any chance of splinching would be dramatically reduced, and it was generally far less stressful to warp through the atmosphere when you didn’t have someone tugging along beside you—but Regulus wanted an excuse to hold Grace’s hand.

“Okay,” she said easily, and slid her hand into his. She gripped the handle of her trunk tightly in her other hand. Cliodna was balanced precariously on her shoulder. “I’ll lead?”

“Sure.”

And they were off. The air swallowed them, expanding and compressing as it funneled them forward. In a matter of seconds, they arrived at platform 9 and 3/4. Steam curled from the Hogwarts Express, enveloping the station. Witches and wizards dotted the platform, anxiously drawing their children close for one last goodbye.

“Ouch—! Cliodna—!”

Regulus turned to Grace in a flurry and found that the cat had leapt down and scratched her across the hand. Cliodna, wide-eyed and panicked, jumped away from the duo, racing towards the train in a blur of sleek black. Grace hissed and pressed her right hand against her left, trying to stamp away the pain.

Regulus winced at the sight. “I suppose she’s not used to Apparating with you,” he explained softly. He reached towards Grace. “Let me see.”

She splayed her hand across his. With a gentle tap of his wand, the thin cuts closed and healed. His eyes flickered up to meet hers, and he was surprised to find her gaze infinitely warm—soft and supple as honey. Her lips were quirked into a gentle smile. Regulus wanted to swoop forward and kiss her very badly, have her so close to his side it might have seemed like they were stitched together, but they were in public and he was almost certain snogging her senseless at King’s Cross for all the world to see would probably invite some sort of suspicion—probably from Rosier and Yaxley—so he settled on guarding her hand in his instead.

“We should find a compartment,” he said, setting forward.

They only managed a couple of steps into the train before they were stopped by a stout girl with close-cropped dark hair and an unhappy glare.

“Black!” Bannerjee barked, striding forward. Her Head Girl badge was pinned to the front of her robes. It seemed to have been polished recently. “Thank Merlin, I’ve been searching for you everywhere! Your appointment was so sudden, I didn’t have time to write to you about Prefect patrols. Kennedy and I made a rota at the beginning of the year, but it’s not applicable anymore due to all the students who’ve chosen not to return for spring term. We’ve got to draft a new one—but, oh—” she glanced busily at the golden watch that adorned her wrist, “—I suppose there’s no time to do that today between the Prefect meeting and patrols. We can try to compose a rough schedule after the meeting, but it might not be complete. Hopefully that’ll be enough for Dumbledore. You got the owl to meet him after dinner tonight, right?”

She finished all this one enormous breath. Regulus stared at her, taken aback, wondering what on earth he had gotten himself into.

“Er—yes,” he managed after a moment.

She nodded briskly. “Good, so we’ll present a rough rota to him then. Have you got a spare moment now? We need to at least go over how we’ll divide train patrols with the Prefects for today.”

Regulus glanced at Grace. “Well, I was going to—”

Grace stopped him. “It’s okay, go ahead. I’ll find us a compartment at the end of the train.”

It was where Rosier, Yaxley, and the new members were planning on meeting. Regulus balked at the thought of any of the Death Eaters in close quarters with Grace without him.

“You don’t have to do that yourself,” he started. “I can come and...” He looked at Bannerjee hesitantly. “Can’t we go over patrols a few minutes before the meeting?”

Her brows flew up. “A—a—few minutes before the meeting?” she spluttered out. “You mean _procrastinate_ _even_ _further_?”

“I mean—it’s just that—does it really seem like—” he fumbled.

“Reg, it’s fine,” Grace called softly, bringing his attention back to her. In a much quieter voice, she added, “I can handle them.”

He didn’t doubt that in the slightest, but he simply didn’t like the idea of having Grace and Yaxley at each other’s throats again without someone sensible around to talk them down. Regulus’s eyes flickered back to Bannerjee, hoping he might be able to barter for some more time—just enough that he and Grace could finish this bloody Death Eater meeting and move on—but before he could, Grace slipped her hand out of his and took off on her own, levitating both their trunks alongside her.

Regulus looked at Bannerjee resignedly. “Alright. We need to divide patrols, is it? That shouldn’t take more than a few minutes.”

The Head Girl was pulling out a thick scroll of parchment. “We’ll see…”

“Why don’t we just pair Prefects off according to their House?”

“We can’t do that.” Bannerjee’s eyes flew through the parchment. “Higgins has dropped out, and his replacement is Fawley. He and Macdonald don’t get along—exes, you see.” She rolled her eyes dramatically. “It caused quite the commotion in Ravenclaw last year. Anyway, we can’t keep them together. It’ll end in a fistfight if we do.”

“Er—okay,” Regulus said, digesting the information. “How about we pair off one Ravenclaw with one Slytherin and one Gryffindor with one Hufflepuff?” He glanced at the scroll. “That way we can have Fawley with Greengrass. She’ll keep him in check.”

“But then we’ll have Macdonald with Rosier. That won’t work.” She cast him an unsure glance. “Macdonald is Muggle-born.”

Regulus’s stomach squirmed. He reached for his left arm uneasily, tugging the hem of his sleeve further down. “Oh.”

“Rosier will probably…complain,” she finished lamely.

“Right.” He didn’t have to tell her that Rosier would likely do much more than just complain. “We could do Hufflepuff and Slytherin? Rosier won’t mind Abbott.”

“That sounds good,” Bannerjee said, taking out a quill to make the amendment.

Regulus watched her scratch out the old Prefects’ names and write in the new ones. Abbott’s name was placed beside Rosier’s. Regulus wondered if he should pull aside Abbott after the meeting and apologize to her for what would undoubtedly be an unbearable patrol.

“Alright,” Bannerjee said, beaming. “That takes care of the seventh-years.”

Regulus’s mouth went dry. “I’m sorry, _just_ the seventh-years? That was _just_ for the seventh-years?”

“Yeah.” She began to unroll the parchment to its full length. “We can’t do the same for the sixth-years and fifth-years. They’ve got the Snyde brothers. Those two will absolutely bully the poor Hufflepuffs they’re partnered with. We ought to put them with the Gryffindors. Ah, but…”

As Bannerjee droned on about the hidden intricacies of partnering Prefects, Regulus found himself why on earth he had ever wanted to be Head Boy. Sure, the role brought on a certain prestige—but was it really worth all this trouble? Who in their right mind factored in Prefects’ past relationships and blood status when forming a patrol system? Who possessed the immeasurable patience to sit and sift through all this information? And how in Merlin’s name had Grace’s hyperactive brother survived _this_?

Regulus glanced down the row of compartments. Grace had long disappeared into the depths of the train. They had all agreed to meet in the last car, but it would still take a few minutes to find the compartment Grace had chosen. He only hoped Yaxley and Rosier hadn’t yet boarded the train.

“How about we let the Prefects decide who they want to patrol with?” he sighed, bringing Bannerjee’s rambling to a slow. “That way no one will be partnered with someone they don’t get along with.”

“But if someone partners with their friend, they’ll just slack off,” Bannerjee protested.

“If it seems a pair gets on _too_ well, we’ll switch them with another pair. How’s that?”

She considered this. “Alright… I suppose that will work. But then we won’t be able to order the patrols until _after_ they’ve chosen their partners.”

“We’ll just do it—” Regulus racked his brain, “—randomly.”

“Randomly?”

“Whoever arrives for the meeting first gets the early patrol—along with whoever they choose to partner with.”

“Huh.” She smiled. “That’s rather nice. That way the Prefects who show up on time will be rewarded. I like the way you think, Black.”

“Er—thanks.” Regulus glanced down the train car. “Is that it now?”

“Yeah. I suppose we could keep the partners for the spring rota, too. But we’ll still have to figure out patrol slots for the whole month after the meeting. Other than that, I think we’re all set. Thanks—”

He was already speeding down the narrow hallway. “Yeah, sure,” he called back, hurtling through the car.

He traveled further and further down the train until he at last found the designated car. He flung open the first six compartment doors he saw—and gave six hasty apologies when the residents turned out to be complete strangers—before finally finding the one Grace had chosen. The door was tucked right in the middle of the row and had a wonky silver handle. He pulled and saw, to his immense relief, that the others hadn’t arrived yet. Grace was curled up in the corner of the compartment with a newspaper in her hands. Cliodna had found her way here, too; the cat was stretched out on the seat opposite Grace’s, yawning and lazing under the sunlight that spilled from the open window.

“I suppose the others haven’t arrived at the platform yet,” Regulus commented with heavy relief, settling beside Grace.

She barely heard him. Her eyes were furiously scanning a _Prophet_ article she had managed to procure. Regulus leaned over her shoulder, curious to see what had so thoroughly captured her interest. His gaze caught the title of the article, and his stomach tightened when he saw it was about the scuffle at Grace’s parent’s funeral.

“Where did you even get that?” Regulus asked. The edition had come out days ago. No one was selling it now.

Grace scowled and turned to the next page. “Someone threw it at me.”

Regulus blinked in surprise. His lips settled into a thin, hard frown. “Who?” he asked, fully intending to assign the offender detention once he found them.

“I dunno. I was turned around.” Her eyes sped over the page speedily. She scoffed. “Look at this—it says _I’m_ the aggressive one. _Me_. That—that’s simply preposterous! James was the one who pulled _me_ aside! Was this Skeeter woman even _at_ the funeral?” She glanced up at Regulus heatedly. “I can’t believe people actually read this rubbish!”

“It’s not meant for people who have any sense.”

“I’d like to tell Skeeter about all the times James tried to give me away as a baby. Did you know he snuck me into a visitor’s bag when I was just four months old? I can only imagine how my parents suffered during his toddler years… And _I’m_ the problem child. Ridiculous. Absurd. As if—”

Regulus snatched the article from her hands. “Don’t pay it any mind,” he said, crumpling it up and tossing it out the open window. He ignored Grace’s protests. “That paper’s a waste of Galleons.”

She stared at him with disbelief. “You… You just chucked the _paper_!”

“So?”

“It’s _writing_. It’s like you just threw out a _book_.”

“That wasn’t a book. It was a pile of trash.” Normally, Regulus would balk at the thought of even creasing any paper with printed text. But any writing that disparaged Grace could hardly be called _writing_.

She rolled her eyes and turned away, sinking deeper into the seat. “I can’t believe you chucked it… I was _reading_ that.”

“No, you were arguing with it.”

“I was _contesting_ the so-called _facts_ presented—”

The compartment door swung open. Grace’s lips clamped shut and she shrank further into the plush material of the seats. Regulus turned around and found Rosier sauntering inside, his new Prefect pin polished and stuck to his chest. Behind him was dark-haired, square-jawed Herwick Snyde, the Keeper for the Slytherin Quidditch team. Snyde threw himself onto the seat opposite Grace and Regulus and kicked his feet up, displacing and angering Cliodna, who fled towards Regulus’s lap.

“Er…” Regulus began, frantically petting Cliodna in an effort to have her stop snarling at Snyde. “You’ve joined, is it…?”

“Oh, yeah,” Snyde drawled.

“I recruited him,” Rosier beamed, settling beside Regulus.

“I _let_ you _say_ you recruited me,” Snyde corrected. His eyes wavered to Grace and Regulus. “I was all set to join. My cousin’s been a part of the Dark Lord’s circle for a few years now.” His gaze lingered on Regulus. “Didn’t expect that you’d be a part of it, though. But I suppose that makes sense. Subtlety _is_ more your style, given how you play Quidditch.” He moved on to Grace and grinned suddenly. “Merlin, am I glad to meet you.”

She stared at him warily. “You…are…?”

“Of course I am!” Snyde’s lit eyes turned to Black and Rosier. “It’s absolutely genius to have Potter in on this. Do you two have any idea how many connections she’s got in this school?” He looked back to Grace eagerly. “I’ve got to know—where did you get all that Basilisk skin from? Mercer was absolutely livid when you took all his business. And when—”

“Wait, you did _what_?” Regulus said, turning back to Grace.

“Snyde’s dorm-mates started a black market sometime in their fourth year,” she explained hurriedly. “Remember? I told you I was helping some students with their potions.”

“You did say that, but you neglected to mention the part about a _black market_, and—hold on…” His face went white. “Do you mean all the times you asked me to order rare potions ingredients—that wasn’t for tutoring students? That was to—”

“Sell back at exorbitant prices? Yes.”

“Grace!”

“I couldn’t tell you all the details,” she argued. “You’d just made Prefect. You needed plausible deniability in case I ever got caught.” After a moment, she added, “I was going to tell you after we graduated…”

Snyde was looking severely disappointed. “You mean to say Black was just ordering all those ingredients for you? You were never smuggling it into the castle from Knockturn Alley or something?”

Grace stared at him. “Do you think I have the _time_ to go all the way to Knockturn Alley just to get some Basilisk skin for a couple snotty teenagers?”

“You’re a teenager, too!” Snyde protested.

“But I’m not snotty.”

“Are you sure about—”

“What are you lot shouting about?” a new voice asked.

Regulus looked towards the compartment door and saw, to his incredible irritation, that Yaxley had arrived. And along with him was Gibbon, brows raised haughtily as he surveyed the students before him. Grace tensed beside Regulus.

“You recruited Gibbon?” Rosier said, a shred of surprise touching his words.

Yaxley forced Snyde towards the window side of the compartment and sat down. “Yes,” he said. His icy gaze flew from Death Eater to Death Eater before finally landing on Grace. His face soured. “And you brought in _her_.”

Gibbon had settled on Yaxley’s other side. His lips broke into a jeer as soon as he caught sight of Grace. “Oh, _Merlin_,” he said. “What use is a cripple to—”

Regulus’s jaw tightened. “I would choose your next words very carefully, Gibbon. Anything you say about the Dark Lord’s Seer will inevitably make its way back to him.”

“_Seer_?” Snyde said, eyeing Grace with renewed interest.

Gibbon swallowed his words and turned away. “Just a joke…” he grumbled quietly.

“Right…” Rosier said, eyeing him warily. “Well, now that introductions are over—”

“Wait, I want to hear more about the Seer thing!”

“Well, you’re not going to,” Grace snapped at Snyde. Her eyes had turned stormy. If Regulus had to guess the reason behind her bad mood, it was the presence of Yaxley and Gibbon. She looked to Rosier. “Is there an _actual_ reason we’re all here?”

“Yes, there is,” Rosier assured. “First of all—” he turned towards Regulus and grinned, “—I suppose congratulations are in order.” Rosier clapped Regulus on the back, and he winced at the contact. What in Merlin’s name had he done to deserve this sort of special attention? “It’ll be much easier to do what needs to be done now that one of us is Head Boy.”

“Or harder,” Gibbon said lazily from his perch by the door. He was picking at his fingernails. “If Black’s Head Boy, don’t you think Dumbledore and McGonagall will be paying much closer attention to him?”

“So?” Rosier said defensively. “Black’s a model student. They won’t be suspicious of him.”

“Yes, but perhaps they’ll be suspicious of those _around_ him,” Gibbon countered. “Meaning _us_. Meaning we’ll have to be on our best behavior—isn’t that right, Yaxley?”

The pale-eyed boy scowled. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means you can’t frolic around hexing every Mudblood you happen upon in plain view of professors,” Snyde said. Yaxley’s brows furrowed, and Snyde rolled his eyes. “Oh, come on. You can’t honestly think you’ve been _discreet_ this whole time, can you? You’ve been lumbering around the castle like some gigantic oaf—”

“Go on and finish that sentence, Snyde,” Yaxley sneered. “See what’ll happen.”

Regulus wondered where on earth Yaxley got his bravado from. Although the seventh-year was as vicious as they came, Snyde was still much larger than him, with a brawnier, stockier frame. By the time Yaxley got his wand out, Snyde would have him in a headlock.

“We’re getting off track,” Regulus interjected sharply, before Snyde could say anything that might further incense Yaxley. They didn’t need a repeat of last term’s train ride, when Yaxley and Rosier had quarreled so intensely about who would head the Hogsmeade stint that Yaxley ended up nearly setting their compartment on fire. “It’s for the best that we _all_ remain discreet, especially since three of us will be meeting with professors now and again.” He looked at Rosier and Snyde, both Prefects, meaningfully.

“Obviously,” Snyde said.

Rosier merely shrugged. Regulus supposed this was better than nothing. He slid against the back of his seat, glancing at his left. Grace was leaning against the glass of the half-open window, seemingly having checked out of the conversation. Regulus couldn’t blame her.

“Was there another reason to gather us all here that doesn’t have to do with Black’s appointment as Head Boy?” Gibbon asked with heavy boredom.

“Oh, right,” Rosier said, perking up. “The Honeydukes cellar.”

Yaxley let out a huff of irritation. Grace’s eyes snapped to Rosier.

Gibbon frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Are you talking about the secret passage?” Snyde asked. “Is that how you lot have been getting out?”

“It’s how we _planned_ on getting out,” Rosier corrected. “We used it first week back to get to Hogsmeade, but when we were returning, it was sealed up. Had to walk all the way back to the castle using Disillusionment Charms.” He grumbled unhappily at the memory of the long, sweltering trek back. “We thought it was just that we couldn’t use the tunnel from the outside, but it turns out it’s been sealed from the inside, too. I reckon Filch found it and had it closed.”

Murmurs of agreement followed. Grace shot Regulus a brief, panicked look. He returned it with one of confusion. _Had she…?_

“That would make sense,” Grace threw in haphazardly, speaking for the first time in several minutes. “He’s always lurking around odd nooks in the castle—probably trying to sniff out secret passages.”

“Filthy Squib,” Yaxley muttered under his breath.

“Was that passage the only way to get out?” Gibbon questioned.

“It was the only one we knew of,” Rosier said.

Snyde turned to Grace. “Well, surely you know of another one, Potter.”

All eyes were on her now. Regulus knew for a fact there were at least three other passages out of the school, the knowledge of which had been passed on from James to Grace, although he couldn’t remember the precise location of any of them. He also knew that Grace would rather pry her teeth out of her mouth than reveal the location of any of these passages to them.

“What makes you think I know about secret passages?” Grace demanded. “I told you I just had Regulus order me the ingredients I needed.”

A frown overcame Snyde’s face. He huffed and threw himself back against his seat. “Salazar, I’d always thought you’d be more exciting, you know?”

Grace narrowed her eyes at him. Regulus found himself frowning at Snyde, too. “_So_ sorry to disappoint,” she snarled.

“Have you tried unsealing the Honeydukes passage?” Gibbon suggested.

Rosier gave him a withering glance. “Of course we did. What do you take us for?”

“You know, we could just walk out,” Yaxley said.

Snyde stared at him. “Just _walk out_? Of what? The school?”

“Yes.”

“You want us—all six of us—to just head out the front door and walk _out_ of Hogwarts when we’re very much not supposed to?”

Yaxley scowled at Snyde. “Well, obviously, I don’t mean to do it just like _that_.”

“Oh, then how _exactly_ did you mean it?” Snyde mocked. “Did you want us to dress up in costumes and walk out? Shall we pretend we’re part of a traveling circus and we’re leaving the school to get to our next venue?”

“You _imbecile_—!”

“Anything from the trolley, dears?”

Silence swept through the compartment door in an instant. All six students turned towards the trolley lady with an expression bordering incredulity. The poor old woman stared back helplessly.

“We’ve a discount on Butterscotch Brains,” she tried after a moment, lifting a package of what seemed to be mushed-up pancakes.

Yaxley sneered. “Do we look like we want your—”

“Actually, I’ll take a Butterscotch Brain,” Snyde cut in, scoffing at Yaxley. “Maybe it can replace the one you’ve got in your head. _We’ll just walk out._” He rolled his eyes. “Merlin, have you always been this thick?”

Yaxley whipped his wand out of his pocket, orange sparks lighting from the tip, while Snyde dug out his own and held it up threateningly. Regulus was beginning to wonder if he was simply cursed with bad luck.

“Let’s put this aside for now,” Regulus tried valiantly. It was a shame no one was listening to him. “We’ve got much more important things to discuss.”

“You should watch your tongue, Snyde,” Yaxley sneered. “You might lose it one day.”

“I’m not as daft as you to misplace my tongue, Yaxley.”

He bristled. “You know that’s not what I—”

“Well, _obviously_. Haven’t you ever heard of wordplay?”

“Have you got any nougat?” Gibbon asked the trolley lady as the commotion continued in the background.

“Are you serious right now?” Rosier gaped at Gibbon.

He shrugged. “I like nougat.”

“Alright, but now’s _hardly_ the time—”

Regulus buried his sigh deep within himself. He turned and met Grace’s faintly amused eyes. Somehow, he was sure she was thinking the same thing he was: _We’re surrounded by idiots._

* * *

The bickering didn’t stop until it was time for Snyde, Rosier, and Regulus to leave for the Prefect meeting at the front of the train. Even then, Snyde was reluctant to allow Yaxley to have the last word. In the end, he had to be physically pulled out of the compartment by Rosier. Regulus followed behind the duo with heavy resignation, Grace beside him.

“If you’d given me a few more minutes, I would have had him,” Snyde grumbled to Rosier. “Besides—who cares if we’re late for this bloody meeting? We’re with the Head Boy.”

Regulus felt his power as Head Boy was being vastly exaggerated. The most he could do was spin some excuse about their tardiness, and while the other Prefects might not question it, Bannerjee certainly would. As each step brought him closer and closer to the front of the train, Regulus found himself feeling less and less enthused about this meeting—perhaps because he hadn’t prepared what he would say or because the role didn’t truly feel like it belonged to him or because it simply didn’t seem to _matter_ in the grand scheme of things. Whatever the reason, Regulus found himself straggling behind as Snyde and Rosier disappeared into the front car. Grace had followed him all the way, likely thinking that tagging along for the walk was a better alternative than staying with Yaxley and Gibbon back at the compartment, and frowned as she caught sight of his grim expression.

“Are you alright?” she asked, pulling him towards a gap in the compartments, blocking the way to the restrooms.

He should have been asking _her_ that. “I’m fine,” he assured. It was only a meeting, after all. Hardly anything to be worked up over. “How do you feel?”

“About that disaster of a meeting?”

Her tone was so flippant and unaffected that Regulus found the corners of his lips ticking up. “Yeah.”

“It was a disaster,” she said matter-of-factly. “Has it always been like this? How did any of you manage to get anything done?”

“We didn’t,” he said. Anything they had managed to accomplish—the Hogsmeade Horror, scaring students with rumormongering, recruiting people into their fold—had been managed with absolute apathy on Regulus’s part and the utmost buffoonery on Yaxley and Rosier’s ends. The prime motivation behind any of their actions was fear of what might happen if they _didn’t_ follow through on their instructions. “It wasn’t _this_ quarrelsome when it was just the three of us… I suspect things might start spiraling out of control.”

She glanced down at the end of the car, eyes lingering on the door Rosier and Snyde passed through. “I didn’t know there’d be so many of them now. Merlin, we almost have enough you-know-whats to form our own Quidditch team.”

Regulus snorted at the thought of Yaxley and Rosier on broomsticks. “They wouldn’t be any good, though.”

She looked back at him and smiled when she saw his features had relaxed. “No, they wouldn’t.” A few more Prefects passed them. Grace’s smile dropped from her face as she caught sight of them hurrying along. “You should go. If you’re late, Bannerjee will be upset again.”

Regulus was reluctant to leave. “Where are you going to go?”

She shrugged. “I’ll probably wait around for you.”

His heart soared at the idea but it quickly plummeted. “I’ve got to discuss the spring rota with Bannerjee after the meeting—and then patrol. I dunno how long I’ll be.”

Her shoulders slumped. “I’ll wait for Ophelia then.” She paused and then added in hushed tones, “We won’t be having another you-know-what meeting today, right?”

“No. I think Yaxley and Snyde are a bit too…_excited_ to discuss the Honeydukes tunnel right now. We’ll probably revisit it later.”

She grimaced. “Ah, right, the Honeydukes tunnel…”

He recalled her odd expression during the meeting. “Did you already know it got sealed?”

“Yeah. I was the one who sealed it.”

His brows flew up. “_You_—Merlin, Grace!”

“It was after the Hogsmeade scare. I didn’t want your lot coming into the castle. Of course, I didn’t know you were already _in_ the castle.” She heaved a sigh. “I could always go back and unseal it. I’d rather we kept using the same tunnel instead of finding a new one. The fewer ways into Hogwarts the others are aware of, the better.”

“No, they’ll be suspicious if it’s suddenly open again.”

Grace nodded in agreement. “Yeah, they’ll figure it wasn’t Filch, which would only raise more questions.”

“We’ll just keep it sealed. And we’ll find another way out, one that doesn’t involve another secret passage.”

“Okay,” Grace said, but she seemed wary at the prospect.

“Don’t worry,” he said quietly. “We’ll figure it out.”

A wan smile flickered across her lips. “I know.”

He took a step back, towards the front car. “I’ll see you later?”

“Yeah.” She squeezed out of the alcove. “I’ll go and—” she waved her hand uselessly, “—wander.”

“Alright,” Regulus said and turned towards the front car. His sole goal was to get to the meeting as quickly as possible so that he might _finally_ get a moment alone (and a normal train ride) with Grace.

He went through the door. Bannerjee, who was mid-speech, shot him an affronted look over the rows of Prefects. Regulus shrugged half-heartedly. He couldn’t find it in himself to care about being a few minutes late when the reason behind his lateness was Grace.

The meeting dragged on for far longer than Regulus thought necessary. Bannerjee took an unnecessarily long amount of time explaining the new Prefect partnering system, and, once she finished, the Prefects took _far_ too much time choosing their partners. In the end, Regulus went around shoving Prefects together and declaring the whole enterprise finished, much to the irritation of a few.

Once the partners were taken care of and the Prefects were assigned their patrols for the day, Bannerjee pulled Regulus aside to discuss the full rota for the spring. Regulus drew up a loose plan in a matter of minutes, feeling this was enough of a guideline to show Dumbledore later, but Bannerjee insisted they agonize over every last detail for what felt like hours.

As it turned out, it _was_ hours.

By the time they were finished, the sun was beginning to set. Regulus finished his own patrol speedily—docking a few points from some rowdy students in the hallway—and began to search for Grace. He barely made it out of the second car when he was greeted (in his view, _accosted_) by Slughorn and ushered into the aging professor’s private compartment for a small meeting with other members of the Slug Club. Regulus spent the soirée wishing he was anywhere _but_ here, refusing the, quite frankly, _disgusting_ crystallized pineapple he was offered, and internally screaming every time Slughorn clapped him on the back and referred to him as _m’boy_.

Slughorn only set his captives free once the day turned dark and the train began to pull in. Regulus was swept by a flood of students erupting from the train, hurtling along the path that led to the magically-drawn carriages. Regulus followed at a fast pace, searching through the crowd for that familiar head of wild dark hair, that gleaming pair of golden eyes.

He caught sight of Grace at the same moment he saw the line of white carriages. She was a few meters ahead, accompanied by a stiff-lipped Greengrass and—unfortunately—a drawling Gamp. Regulus dashed forward, intending to join her in the waiting carriage and, hopefully, save her from whatever torturously dull story Gamp was in the middle of telling. But he was a moment too late. The carriage rolled away just as he approached the queue.

He waited for the next one.

Luckily, it was swiftly boarded by three other students—a gaggle of fifth-year girls who kept shooting him strange looks the entire ride—and took off. They arrived at the castle just a few minutes after Grace’s did, and Regulus managed to find Grace just as he passed through the gates. The large double doors of Hogwarts were thrust open. The light of the castle spilled into the night, drawing students in. Regulus made it to Grace’s side just as they passed inside.

“I’m sorry,” he burst, ushering her a little away from Greengrass and Gamp, letting the swell of incoming students eclipse them from sight. “I didn’t realize my patrols would be longer, and then Slughorn wanted—”

“It’s okay, I figured something happened.”

But she still seemed troubled—brows drawn, lips thinned and curved into a deep frown. Regulus racked his brain, trying to come up with an apology that didn’t sound like a pathetic pile of excuses. He followed alongside Grace quietly, the torchlight flickering over them, students milling all around them. The farther along they went, the more uneasy Grace became—and it became abundantly clear to Regulus that her mood had nothing to do with him but with all the students that surrounded them. As they parted through the crowd, Regulus realized that there were a few clusters of students staring at Grace, pointing at her and turning back to whisper rapidly to their friends.

“What’s…?” Regulus began in confusion, whirling around.

“Don’t look,” Grace hissed.

“What?”

“Don’t look at them.”

“What’s going on?”

She kept her eyes—hard and sharp—on the floor. There was a storm brewing in her voice. “They all read the article, too.”

Regulus’s stomach dropped to his toes. “You mean…the one I chucked out the window?”

“Yeah.” She struggled with something for a moment. “This happened on the train, too. There have been some rumors spreading, according to Gamp. It’s a pile of steaming rubbish, of course, but…”

“But?”

She didn’t finish, preferring to continue staring at the stone of the floor like her greatest desire was to set it ablaze with her eyes. Regulus’s gaze skimmed over her worriedly. Grace sometimes pretended she didn’t care about what others thought, but the awful truth was that she did. She absolutely did. She cared about what her brother thought, even if it was all nonsense, even if what he said was said with nothing more than the intention to hurt. She cared about what her friends thought, especially when it was in relation to her, especially when it was about her pranks or her talent or even as something as mundane or fleeting as a joke she made that morning. She cared about what students had thought of her last year, when news of her magi-neurological disease had come out. She cared so much she couldn’t help but hear what people had to say about her, no matter how pitying or disgusted or mean-spirited they were.

Regulus didn’t want to have her go through all this again, especially when it was really all for _him_. After all, that nasty article would have never come out if it wasn’t for their plan. Guilt rolled into Regulus like a rockslide. He reached down to take Grace’s hand and gave it a light squeeze, trying to stave off his own tornado of emotion as well as hers.

“It’ll blow over,” he promised. He would make sure of it—somehow, some way. “It always does.”

“Yeah,” she said but didn’t seem very comforted by the thought. She wriggled out of his grasp. “I’ve got to go to Ophelia. I’ll see you later—tomorrow, I guess.”

They parted as they reached the entranceway. Grace went off towards the end of the Slytherin table, swiftly followed by a cool-headed Ophelia Greengrass. As Regulus passed through the throng of students, he saw a particularly vicious Ravenclaw eye Grace and whisper to her friends, “I heard she was waiting for her parents to croak, just so she could get the inheritance. As soon as they were in the dirt, she revealed her true colors.”

Regulus caught a glimpse of the Prefect badge stuck to her chest. _Mira Finchley_, he recalled from the meeting. He filed the name away, deciding to switch her over to the much dreaded weekend patrols once he got the chance, and seated himself at the front of the Slytherin table. He was quickly joined by the usual crowd: the Rosiers, Yaxley, Snyde and his younger brother, and a few others. Pleasantries flew over the table. Regulus barely heard the surrounding chatter; he was filled with so much irritation and anxiety, he found he couldn’t focus on anything but the dismal situation he and Grace had found themselves in. (He briefly wondered if the Black vaults contained enough money to buy _The Daily Prophet_. Once he owned it, he could personally fire Rita Skeeter and make certain she never finds employment ever again.)

He glanced down at the other end of the table, where Grace was sitting opposite Greengrass. The distance wasn’t more than a few meters, but it might as well have felt like miles. Regulus felt the separation slip his heart, splitting it far and wide. It was for the best. He knew that. He knew that Greengrass and others might find it suspicious if Grace suddenly began sitting with him at the other end of the table. He knew that Dumbledore might be keeping an eye on Grace—either at the behest of James or out of simple curiosity. He knew all this, but it still hurt. His heart still ached.

His thoughts ran wild and rampant in his head. He jumped from worry for Grace to worry for himself, fear of You-Know-Who to fear of Dumbledore. The hour passed by in a daze of anxiety. Regulus hardly realized he’d finished his food until the tines of his fork hit an empty plate. He stared down at the clean porcelain, the faint ghost of his reflection staring back at him, and realized he didn’t feel the slightest bit full. He felt hollow.

Crowds of students poured out of the Great Hall, heading to their respective common rooms. Regulus rose with the others—the yawning Rosiers, Snyde snickering with his brother and pointing discreetly at Yaxley—and walked alongside them, leaden and flat, not quite registering each footfall. They separated somewhere along the way, the Slytherins heading down, Regulus going up, feet trudging on, step after step, relentless. The echoes carried through the deserted hallway. They sounded empty, too.

He reached the Headmaster’s Office far too quickly for his liking. Bannerjee, of course, was already there, chatting animatedly with Dumbledore. Regulus quickly checked the strength of his mental shield before crossing the threshold and stepping inside.

“Ah, Mr. Black,” Dumbledore greeted, blue eyes sparkling behind his half-moon spectacles. There was a small, kind smile nestled above his beard.

“Hello, sir,” Regulus said softly, keeping his voice low so the undercurrent of nervousness would be less obvious. He took a seat beside Bannerjee. “How are you?”

“Rather well, all things considered,” he said cheerily. “And you?”

“I’m good,” he said, feeling as though he might puke any moment now.

He tore his eyes away from Dumbledore’s strangely serene form, focusing on the edge of his desk, the glint of the wood as the flame of the hearth struck it. Bannerjee started to introduce the new rota they had come up with after the Prefect meeting on the train, listing out the partners the Prefects had chosen for themselves and the slots they had decided to assign those Prefects for the spring term. Dumbledore nodded along politely, adding his two cents now and again, about whether or not they were _certain_ they wanted to have Hufflepuffs patrol the towers instead of the lower levels, closer to their common room, and other mundane things. As the conversation flew by seamlessly, Regulus found his anxiety ease and abate. He threw in the occasional ‘yes, sir’ and ‘of course’ when he needed, but other than that, he refrained from bringing any sort of attention to himself. While Dumbledore didn’t _seem_ like he was particularly suspicious of Regulus, this could all be part of some large plan the old wizard had concocted. Perhaps he intended to throw Regulus off-kilter by acting so warm and kind?

But as the hour passed and Dumbledore ended the meeting by offering the duo some lemon drops, Regulus found himself doubting his suspicions about the Headmaster. An overwhelming calm radiated from Dumbledore, and Regulus could not help but wonder if he couldn’t just hang around after Bannerjee left and simply tell Dumbledore _everything_—about the Mark stamped into his left wrist, about the other Death Eaters in Hogwarts, and about the risky plan he and Grace had concocted. Regulus knew he might come across as completely criminal, seeing as his parents were longtime proponents of blood purity and his cousin was a notorious follower of You-Know-Who—but surely Dumbledore wouldn’t hold his family against him, right?

Bannerjee descended the stairs. Regulus skirted by the entrance of the office, thoughts swirling like a hurricane.

“Is there something on your mind, Mr. Black?”

Regulus’s head snapped up. Dumbledore’s blue eyes—deep and imploring—searched his. There was something unsettling about that gaze. It washed over Regulus like an ocean wave rearing over the water before crashing down. Vast and endless, like the old wizard was ready to swallow him whole. Regulus opened his mouth but found he could not say anything related to his current predicament. He wanted to trust Dumbledore. He wanted it so very badly—to shed the Mark that had been blistered into his skin, to give his eyes and ears and mouth to another cause, to hand off his entire life to somebody—but he couldn’t. He didn’t know Dumbledore. He didn’t know how far Dumbledore’s kindness might stretch. Regulus had been a Death Eater for many months now. Suppose Dumbledore didn’t believe he wanted to turn sides? Suppose he didn’t even want Regulus?

No, it had to be James. It had to be James, because if there was one thing Regulus knew about James Potter, it was this: he loved his sister. It did not matter if the Order was desperate for a spy or if they already had twenty: if Grace told James she was a Death Eater and wanted out, there was no tree he would uproot and no rock he would upturn to help her defect to the Order.

Regulus looked away from Dumbledore and scrambled for some excuse. “Er—no, I was just… I was just wondering… What happened to Cresswell? Is he okay?”

Surprise flitted through Dumbledore. He leaned away from his desk and steepled his fingers together. “I assure you Mr. Cresswell is perfectly fine. He—and many others—went into hiding in lieu of returning to Hogwarts. I’m sure you understand why.”

Regulus nodded jerkily, only half-hearing the words. “I see. I—I’ll be off now.”

Dumbledore studied him for a moment. “Is that all you wanted to know? Are you sure there isn’t anything else you want to say?”

_I’m a Death Eater, but I never wanted to be one. I want this to be over. When will it be over?_

“No, sir. Nothing at all.”

* * *

“GET UP, YOU LAZY LOUT!”

Regulus shot out of his bed, heart hammering. He reached out to the bedside table, scrambling wildly for his wand. When his hand found the hilt, he caught sight of Renard, the Slytherin Quidditch Captain, dim and shadowed under the weak light that filtered through the drapes. The burly, copper-haired boy hovered at the end of Regulus’s bed, an absolutely garish grin plastered to his face.

“_Feeeeeeeelix_,” Rosier groaned from the next bed over. “_Whyyyy_?”

“Shut up, Magnus.”

“_Go awaaaaay_.” A pillow was lobbed from Rosier’s bed. It landed a foot short of Renard.

“This is why you didn’t make the team,” Renard scoffed.

“Waz happenin’?” Gamp’s sleepy voice floated over from the last bed.

Regulus propped himself up and rubbed at his eyes. He turned to look at the peek in the curtains. From what he could see, the sun was still rising. Confusion flooded his mind. What in Merlin’s name was going on? He looked up at Renard and said, with the utmost eloquence, “Huh?”

“What?” Renard said, as though it were perfectly normal for him to barge into the seventh-year boy’s dormitory like this. “You thought I wouldn’t take this match seriously?”

“Match…?” Regulus repeated drowsily.

“It’s Slytherin versus Gryffindor in less than a month!” Renard declared. “If we lose to those gormless buffoons, I’ll never live it down. I’ve drawn up a whole new training schedule specifically for this match, and—” he glanced at the drawn curtains, “—we’re already five minutes behind!”

“Renard, if you don’t _shut up_ and _get out_, you won’t _live_ to see the upcoming match let alone play in it,” Yaxley growled from the other side of the room.

Renard’s cast an unsure glance at Yaxley’s hangings. He loomed over Regulus’s bed and dropped his voice to a whisper. “I’m giving you _five_ minutes to get ready and march down to the Quidditch pitch. If you’re not there in time, you _won’t_ like what happens next.”

With that, Renard swept away, the emerald green of his Quidditch robes flapping behind him. Regulus stared at the spot Renard had been standing in for roughly thirty seconds, wondering what on earth he had possibly done to deserve Renard as a captain, before forcing himself up and trudging to the bathroom. He got ready—albeit somewhat messily—in record time and whizzed over to the Quidditch pitch. He arrived panting and gasping for air, as did several other members of the team.

“Merlin, Felix,” Snyde groaned, unable to keep his eyes open for more than a few seconds at a time, “it’s the first day of classes.”

“Do you think the Gryffindors care if it’s the first day of classes? No—they don’t. They will take any chance they get to _obliterate_ us this match, and I won’t allow for it. We need to be—”

“How’d you even manage to get the pitch booked?” Ludwig interrupted. Her blonde hair had been tied up messily, and she was glaring at Renard as if she’d like nothing more than to bury him alive.

“I did it before we left for holiday.”

Selwyn, Ludwig’s fellow Beater, stared at the captain with growing disbelief. “You’re an absolute madman, you know that, right?”

Renard grinned. “Oh, you don’t know the half of it.”

He quickly made sure they knew the other half of it. In a matter of minutes, Renard had pulled out a long scroll of parchment which contained their training regimen for the next few weeks and the plays they would need to learn for the upcoming match. After reviewing the material, he directed his sleepy team towards the outskirts of the field, instructing them to run laps until their legs gave out. _I don’t care about winning the Cup_, Renard declared as he ran alongside them, somehow filled with inexhaustible energy. Perhaps it was his hate that kept him going. _I just don’t want Gryffindor to get it_.

By the time they ran through all the warm-ups, the sun had reached its zenith, coating the field in rosy pinks and warm yellows. Regulus swept into the sky on his new Nimbus model, watching with growing boredom as Renard yelled his fellow Chasers into submission. No doubt Regulus would get his fair share of shouts and scowls from Renard, but until then he might as well enjoy the moment. He swung through the sky, wringing his scarf tight against his face as the cold bit into his skin, passing over the outermost corners of the pitch, rounding the hoops at the far end, only stopping when he reached the near-empty stands.

There were always a few people at the stands during practice: usually replacements for the team or those who were thinking of trying out next year. Sometimes, players’ girlfriends or boyfriends stopped by, too, because they wanted to offer support, or because their partners had asked them to, or because they were supposed to head to breakfast together after practice was over, and so on. Selwyn’s girlfriend, a plain girl with a cleft chin, stopped by frequently. She was here now, along with a few of Ludwig’s giggling friends. They were clumped together in the middle of the stands. Seated a few rows above them was Grace—solitary, bundled up in at least five layers, fiddling with her gloves, staring emptily into the horizon.

A spark of thrill raced through him. For the first time, Regulus was glad he was out on the field. He reared his broom forward and completed another round across the pitch, making sure to hover by the top of the stands. He looked back and found Grace’s eyes—golden as the rising sun—stuck to his form. Warmth filled him. It all felt so normal, suddenly: being awoken at the crack of dawn by Renard (that twat) for Quidditch practice, running through the cold until his limbs were worn and weary, seeing Grace perched atop the stands, watching him with the same quiet enthusiasm the other players’ girlfriends and boyfriends did. (Was that what she was now? His girlfriend? It sounded funny. It sounded wonderful.)

But as quickly as that sense of normalcy arrived, it fled. Regulus realized with alarming speed that it was too early in the morning, and the only reason Grace would ever be awake now is if she hadn’t been able to go to sleep in the first place. 

Regulus hurtled through the remainder of practice in his haste to have it end and reach Grace. He entertained Renard’s insane requests, practicing spiral dives from ridiculous heights and dodging Selwyn and Ludwig’s haphazardly thrown Bludgers. The grueling hour and a half of Quidditch practice ended just as breakfast in the Great Hall was halfway over.

Regulus’s teammates touched their broomsticks to the ground. Wheezing and panting, sweat stains blooming across their uniforms, they dashed madly for the changing rooms. Regulus burst through the door, throwing his broomstick to some far corner of the room and shrugging his shirt off.

“Did you see Potter come out?” Snyde said, coming up beside him. He was grinning. Regulus decided he didn’t like it when Snyde smiled. There was something unpleasant lurking underneath the leer. Perhaps it was the yellowish teeth. “Think she came to see me?”

Regulus quickly amended his previous thought: he didn’t like it when Snyde existed. “She came because we’re heading to breakfast together,” he made up and turned away before the conversation could continue further.

He flung off his sweaty uniform and quickly slipped on his spare set of robes. As soon as he was adequately dressed, he raced out of the room, intending to leave Snyde far, far behind. He sprinted towards the stands, clumsily fixing up his tie, his green-and-silver scarf haphazardly wrung over his shoulders.

Grace was already waiting for him down below, hands running along the strap of her bag. She smiled at him. Dark smudges rested under her eyes. Regulus wished he could wipe them away.

“How was practice?” she asked, matching his fast stride. They began the trek away from Ludwig’s cluster of friends. “Renard seemed to be in a particularly vicious mood today.”

Practice had been absolutely awful, but Regulus didn’t want to weigh her down with the gory details. “It was fine.” He finished with his tie and looked down at her. “How’d you know I’d have practice today?”

She scoffed lightly. “How could I not? While you were having your meeting with Dumbledore, Renard got a hold of some Firewhiskey last night and kicked up a fuss in the common room. Started shouting about how the upcoming match would be the most important one of the _century_. An ‘age-defining match,’ according to him.” She rolled her eyes. “He said he’d be working you lot down to the bone.”

Regulus grimaced. “Well…at least he’s true to his word.”

“I don’t understand why he’s so obsessed with Quidditch all of a sudden. He didn’t give a rat’s tail about the match against Ravenclaw before holiday.”

“It’s because this one’s against Gryffindor.”

“Ah,” she nodded in understanding.

Once they were far enough from the others, Regulus leaned closer to her and asked, “Did something happen?”

She shifted. “It’s nothing, really. Just that… I went to the owlery last night. To deliver the letter I wrote to Dirk. And, well—” her voice was a shadow brushing the ground, “—the owl flew back. Almost immediately. I know it probably means that he’s just gone into hiding and cast an Undetectable Charm or something, but I keep thinking… What if it’s because he’s…”

_Dead._

The pain in her voice bit into his heart. Regulus stopped in his tracks. “He’s not,” he said instantly, almost promising. “I asked Dumbledore last night. He said Cresswell went into hiding. He can’t be dead.”

The cloudy expression on her face cleared. “He really said that?”

“Yeah. And if something really did happen, I’m sure he would have told the whole school. But he hasn’t. So, Cresswell must be fine.”

“Right,” Grace nodded absently. She was chewing on her bottom lip. “But why’d he leave in the first place? What happened? He didn’t—”

“You two aren’t going off without me, are you?” a chipper voice interrupted.

Grace’s lips stitched shut. Regulus turned around and found Snyde striding towards them, a new, even worse grin plastered to his face. Blue eyes lit and dancing, he joined the duo, pushing between them. His broomstick was slung over his shoulders, and he made a big show of flourishing the handle, where the words _Thunderstick 1001_ were neatly engraved, towards Grace.

“Heading to breakfast, right?” Snyde said, looking between them.

“Right,” Regulus grumbled.

Grace frowned. “Er—yeah?”

“Then we’d better go before it ends,” he declared, bounding forward. He locked eyes with Regulus. “Merlin, you’d think Renard would at least finish practice early enough so we’d get enough time to _eat_. Wouldn’t want the team to faint from malnutrition, you know?”

“Yeah,” Regulus forced out through pursed lips.

“To be honest, I don’t feel too good about how Renard’s going about this whole match,” Snyde continued. “Gryffindor is definitely going to go full offensive. We can’t exactly counter with even _more_ offensive tactics, can we? The match is going to turn into a battle if we do. Don’t get me wrong—I’d like to show those oafs their place, but not by risking my own neck.” He shrugged noncommittally. “We should just cheat and get it over with. Melvin Marks is the replacement Keeper. He’s in my brother’s year. Apparently, he’s scared of his own shadow. We could probably get him to throw the match, but we’d have to put the current Keeper out of commission first.” He paused for a moment, waiting for Regulus or Grace to weigh in, but neither had anything to say. Snyde cleared his throat noisily. “Well, no matter what, I’m sure we’ll beat the Gryffindors. What do you think, Potter?”

She looked at him, eyes filled with utter disinterest. “I don’t particularly care.”

Regulus’s lips quirked into a small smile. Snyde’s shoulders fell.

“Er—yeah,” he backpedaled, “I suppose it doesn’t seem like much considering all the other stuff we’ll be getting up to.”

“Right,” she said dryly. Her eyes flitted to his broomstick. She raised a brow. “Why’re you lugging that thing around? Shouldn’t you leave it in the shed?”

Snyde passed the broom to his other hand, brandishing it proudly. “Oh, you know,” he said grandly, “can’t just leave a broom like _this_ cooped up in a shed.”

“Why? It hasn’t got feelings, has it?”

Regulus stifled his laugh with a hasty cough.

“Well,” Snyde sniffed, “it’s meant to be _seen_, I mean. Cost nearly five hundred Galleons. I can’t just leave it in some dusty old shed. And you know Filch comes by to clean—whenever he decides to get off his arse to do the job, of course.” His expression morphed into one of distaste. “What if he took it? A Squib like that’s probably never laid eyes on something as nice as this. He’d steal it in a heartbeat. You know, Selwyn once left his shin guards in there overnight, and…”

He broke into a story about how they’d disappeared the following morning and how he was almost positive Filch had taken them. _Why_ Filch would bother with a Beater’s shin guards was beyond Regulus.

Grace let Snyde ramble on and on, lingering behind as he surged forward with the strength of his story. Regulus kept in pace with her. He glanced down and furrowed his brows when he saw she was fiddling with her left sleeve. Her right hand rose and pressed against her left forearm, and although Regulus couldn’t see through the fabric, he knew that was where the Dark Mark had been branded into her skin.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, voice hushed.

Her hand froze. “It feels weird,” she murmured. She moved her hand down. Her fingers played with the hem of the sleeve. “Like an itch…”

Regulus caught her hand with his own before she could scratch it. “You can’t,” he said softly, gently interlacing their fingers together and drawing her right hand away from the left. If she touched the Dark Mark for just a moment too long, then _he_ would be notified.

“It just doesn’t feel right,” she said again, helpless and desperate.

Regulus’s heart constricted. He knew what she meant. He had felt it, too, in the weeks following his initiation. His left forearm seemed heavier than his right, as though it was weighed down by the dark ink stamped into it. Sometimes, it didn’t seem to be a part of his body, as if the appendage were cut off from him, someone else’s arm, someone else’s Mark. Sometimes, it burned, a sear against skin, blistering. Sometimes, like Grace said, it was an itch he simply couldn’t scratch.

There was nothing they could do about it. The feeling came and went. All Regulus could do was keep her hand in his and hope to never let go.

* * *

Two weeks went by in a haze of assignments, Quidditch practice, and Head Boy duties. With N.E.W.T.s coming up, professors were piling on so much work that Regulus barely had a moment to himself. He made a semi-permanent home out of a hidden table in the library, leaving nearly all his belongings—books, half-finished essays, worn-down quills and inkpots, spare scarves and gloves—there while he was in class or in the Great Hall for a quick meal. He was running around the castle so often that this system was much more preferable to packing and carrying all his items every other hour or so. Every day was spent waking up at an ungodly hour for Quidditch practice, running laps and completing exercises until his limbs were strained and sore, dashing off for a quick nibble and then heading to class, and then another class, and yet another class—until it was time to attend some meeting with Bannerjee or Dumbledore or Slughorn. Each day was spent running in circles. Each day was an imitation of the last—except for the day Regulus received a letter from Narcissa.

After dinner, he gathered the other Death Eaters and ferried them up to the seventh year boy’s dormitory. Gamp and Wilkinson were asked (read: threatened) to avoid the room for the next few hours as Regulus discussed the contents of the letter with the others.

“There’s to be a meeting with the Dark Lord at the start of February,” Regulus announced, flattening the letter on the end of his bed, where he was sitting cross-legged. Grace was at the head of his bed, back flat against his mound of pillows, drawn into herself. The others were dotted around them, Rosier and Yaxley lounging on their own beds, Snyde sprawled on the floor, Gibbon standing woodenly by the entrance. “We’re expected to attend.”

Gibbon raised a brow. “That’s it? That’s all the letter says?”

Regulus nodded, but apparently this wasn’t enough for the Ravenclaw. He swooped forward and picked up the letter from Regulus’s bed. His eyes flew over the penned words swiftly, and he frowned once he reached the end.

“This just says you’re supposed to send a birthday present for someone named Lucius on the fifth!”

A weary sigh escaped Regulus.

“We always get meeting dates like that,” Rosier explained from his perch. “You can hardly expect his cousin to write to us and say, ‘Oh, the Dark Lord is expecting you round for tea and biscuits at noon tomorrow.’” Snyde snorted. “If it’s intercepted, we’ll be thrown in Azkaban before the day’s up.”

“But what if this really _is_ about you sending a birthday present—”

“It’s not,” Regulus snapped, snatching the letter back. “Lucius’s birthday is in November, not February. Instead of debating the validity of the letter, can we move on to the obvious problem: how are we getting out of the castle on the fifth?”

“According to Yaxley, we can just _walk out_,” Snyde drawled.

Yaxley flung a dirty sock Snyde’s way. The younger boy deftly rolled out of the way.

“No luck with secret passages, right?” Rosier asked, ignoring the scuffle.

Snyde shot Yaxley a dark glare before returning to the conversation. “I asked around,” he told Rosier, “but the common one is the Honeydukes tunnel. There are rumors of another passage on the fifth floor, but no one knows where it is.”

“We could try searching for it…?” Rosier began unsurely.

“Who knows how long that’ll take?” Grace countered immediately, leaning forward. She was adamant to keep the knowledge of other secret passages, well, _secret_. “We should have another way out of the castle in case we never find another passage.”

“Are you _sure_ the Honeydukes tunnel can’t be unsealed?” Gibbon threw in.

“We’re sure,” all five of them chorused.

Gibbon deflated. “Fine.”

“I think we should just walk out. It’ll be dark, and if we cast Disillusionment Charms, no one will notice us,” Yaxley said.

“And walk _all_ that way to Hogsmeade to Apparate?” Rosier said, appalled at the prospect. “I _won’t_ do that again.”

“Oh, we have to Apparate?” Snyde asked hesitantly. “I haven’t taken the test yet. It’s in April.”

“What did you think we’d do? Fly all the way to Malfoy Manor?” Yaxley sneered.

Gibbon’s brows rose. “That’s not too bad an idea.”

“What isn’t?” Rosier said.

“Flying.”

“We can’t do that,” Regulus said, frowning. “The manor is too far away to fly to. We’d have to start at daybreak to reach it in time.”

“No, I mean flying to Hogsmeade. We can store our broomsticks somewhere, and Apparate from there.”

Rosier beamed. “Brilliant! And then we won’t have to walk—”

“How is it you’re on board for this but not my walking out idea?” Yaxley demanded. “There’s a much higher chance of being caught if we’ll be flying out of the castle. Any idiot can just look up and spot us. We can’t charm the broomstick to just disappear, can we?”

“Also,” Snyde interjected, “I still can’t Apparate.”

“You can Side-Along with someone,” Rosier said dismissively. He looked to Yaxley. “Couldn’t we—I dunno—get some invisibility cloaks and just wear those while we fly?”

“Invisibility cloaks?” Gibbon repeated. “Where in Merlin’s name do you suppose we get our hands on _six_ invisibility cloaks in less than a month?”

Grace perked up. “Mercer. He’s got to have some.”

“Oh, right!” Snyde shot up from the floor. “He _definitely_ has some. Invisibility cloaks have been a big hit since the start of the year. Lots of students want to sneak out to Hogsmeade.”

Gibbon stared at them. “And Mercer is…?”

“He runs a black market,” Grace explained.

“He’s my dorm-mate,” Snyde said at the same time.

“Wait, hold on,” Regulus interceded, trying to wrap his mind around the conversation. It didn’t help that part of his thought process was still stuck on the Ancient Runes essay he had to finish tonight. “You want us to fly out of here wearing invisibility cloaks?”

“Seems fine to me,” Rosier shrugged. “Surely they’ll be long enough to cover the brooms—or most of the brooms. It’ll be dark, so even if there’s a bit sticking out, no one’s bound to notice.”

The idea sounded absurd, but that’s not what was bothering Regulus. He looked to Grace. “Are you okay with flying? You don’t—”

“You can’t _fly_?” Snyde interrupted loudly. “Didn’t you ever take first-year classes?”

“She didn’t,” Yaxley said before Grace could respond. “She’s got her—” his lips curled with disgust, “—_condition_.”

The corners of Snyde’s lips dipped. “You mean the Seeing?”

Gibbon rolled his eyes.

Regulus’s jaw clinched tight. “It’s not that,” he snapped, eyes narrowing at Yaxley. “She doesn’t have a broomstick—and neither does Rosier.”

“So, what?” Snyde shrugged. “We can borrow from the team. There’ll be enough.” His eyes lingered on Grace. “And if Potter doesn’t have experience flying, she can ride with me—”

Regulus’s face, pinched with burning irritation, flew from Yaxley to Snyde.

“I’ll be fine,” Grace interrupted, voice harsh. Her gaze, severe and stinging, was still on Yaxley. “I can fly perfectly well.”

Regulus relaxed at the words but his heated glare didn’t lift from Snyde in the slightest. He made a mental note to make certain Grace took her dose of Clear-Head Concoction on the fifth.

“Alright,” Rosier said, throwing fretful looks across the room. “So, it’s settled. We’ll just fly out on the fifth.”

Snyde nodded his assent. “I’ll ask Mercer for the cloaks.”

“What exactly happens during these meetings?” Gibbon asked.

Rosier immediately jumped in to answer the questions, spouting off about the various tasks and missions other Death Eaters had been given and how vigilant the Dark Lord was in keeping tabs on them. As the conversation flowed and morphed into something more casual, Grace left, excusing herself in favor of finishing a Charms essay in the library.

Regulus stayed behind, if only for a few more minutes. Leaving abruptly to follow after her would be strange, he decided, and so endured Rosier’s prattle for a little longer. Once Snyde and Gibbon grew bored and left, Regulus slipped out of the room. He bolted down the stairs, dashed out of the common room, and sped to the library. In the far back, behind rows and rows of bookshelves, was Grace. She was settled at the partially hidden table Regulus usually camped out at between classes. Laid out in front of her was a half-filled scroll of parchment and nearly a dozen textbooks.

Regulus took the seat beside her and pulled his own books and scrolls—leftover from when he was working before dinner—closer to him. He rolled his quill between his fingers but found himself unable to write. He glanced at Grace unsurely.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

She was gnawing at her bottom lip, eyes flying through an open book about non-verbal spells. “Yeah,” she said absently. “You?”

“Yeah.” His eyes didn’t lift from her form. “When I mentioned the flying, I didn’t mean to—”

“I know.” She sighed and set the book down. Her head lifted towards him. “They’re just pricks.”

“Yeah.” He thought back to Snyde, and an instant dislike swelled within him. Just the mere thought of the sixth-year left a bitter taste in Regulus’s mouth. “They are.”

She hummed in agreement, turning back to her essay. Regulus dipped his quill in its inkpot and set to carefully translating the runes he had been assigned. As the minutes ticked by and he fell into the rhythm of the runes, he found his mind wandering. His thoughts turned to Narcissa’s letter and the upcoming meeting. What was so important that it was required they attend in the middle of term? It couldn’t be that You-Know-Who was planning on assigning them some great, critical task or anything like that. After all, what in Merlin’s name could a couple of seventh-years accomplish while under the watchful eye of Albus Dumbledore? If anything, the meeting was simply a way for You-Know-Who to check-in and assert control over his youngest followers. That and, perhaps, make use of Grace’s Seeing.

“Why’re you staring at me?”

Regulus startled. His eyes were stuck to Grace’s profile, tracing the tumble of her dark hair, the furrow between her brows and the wrinkle of her nose as she worked through her essay. He hadn’t realized he’d turned to look at her.

“We should meet later, when we have the chance,” Regulus said softly. “We need to figure out what to do about your Seeing.”

Her grip tightened around her quill. “Okay. Later.”

Regulus could see the weight of the task crushing into Grace. It was an enormous thing to ask of her—to See without Seeing—but it had to be done. They had to fool You-Know-Who. But they didn’t know how. The books in the library about Divination proved useless when it came to inducing visions, and Vablatsky’s journal was simply filled with warnings about what would happen if Grace ever did See. Regulus had shown Grace his translations of these sections of the journal: Vablatsky had described a ‘madness of the mind’ that would slowly overtake Grace if she ever forced open her Inner Eye. So, they had agreed to keep it closed, just like Vablatsky wanted. But if that was the case, how could Grace ever convince You-Know-Who she could See?

It was an impossible riddle, one Regulus wished desperately they could receive help with. It was just the two of them out here, huddled away in the library. They could only do so much between classes and other priorities. They could only devote so much time. They could only give up so much sleep.

Regulus’s hand stilled over his parchment. “What if,” he tried hesitantly, “we went to your brother now?”

Grace dropped her quill and turned fully to him. “We can’t,” she insisted. “We don’t have anything to give him. I’ve got to have _something_ under my belt before we go to him—some secret or plan that’s so important he won’t have any choice but to let me spy. That’s the only way he’d let me in the first place. If I haven’t got anything and go to him, he’ll say I can’t do it. He’ll—I dunno—he’ll say _something_.” She frowned tightly, upset with James or herself or with the constraints of the plan—Regulus couldn’t tell exactly what it was, just that there was some dimension to this whole thing that was bothering her.

She was approaching this in the Slytherin way: to get James to agree to the plan and invite them into the Order, they needed to show James they were capable. They needed to give him some piece of information. But Regulus didn’t feel like this applied here, not with James. He didn’t think James would need a reason when it came to Grace.

“I don’t know. I can’t think straight right now,” she continued. She rubbed her hand across her face, trying to wipe away the weariness. “Can we talk about it later? I’m tired.”

She turned back to her essay, and Regulus could feel that distance again, spreading out between them like an earthquake splitting the ground, except it seemed a thousand times worse than the distance he felt during classes or meals. It was a distance that wasn’t physical in the slightest. They were right next to one another, but Regulus had never felt further apart. It had only been two weeks, but that had been enough. That had been enough for Regulus to lose touch. He didn’t know what she was losing sleep over. It might not have had anything to do with the plan at all. It could be that she was simply overworked from classes or that Slughorn had been giving her trouble again or (Regulus’s stomach tightened at the prospect) it could be her condition that was bothering her. They hadn’t sat down and had a proper chat in what felt like eons.

“Do you want to have dinner tomorrow night?” he asked, hoping this would fix it. Hoping beyond hope that tonight would be enough, because—between patrols and Prefect meetings—he did not know how many tonights he could devote to her.

She turned to him with surprise. “What?”

“Dinner,” he repeated. “We don’t have to discuss the plan. We can just talk. Tomorrow night. In the kitchens. Just us.”

A wan smile flickered across her face. “Just us and about a hundred house-elves, you mean.”

His heart thrummed with warmth. He inched closer. “Do you think we should get a hundred more?”

She snorted and closed the remaining distance between them, leaving her chair in favor of burying her face into his chest and winding her arms around his neck. “I miss you,” she let out.

“I miss _you_.” His hand ran through her hair. “So, that’s a yes, then? Dinner tomorrow?”

“Yaxley and Rosier will wonder where you’ve gone.”

“If they ask, I’ll tell them I had to finish an essay.”

She lifted her head to look at him. “Are you sure?” she questioned. “Because if we do this tomorrow and it’s nice, I’ll want to do it every other week.”

And Regulus would let her. He’d let her have him every day if he could. His hand lifted from the back of her head and lingered against the curve of her cheek. He drew her up to him and pressed a tender kiss against her lips. She looked up at him, eyes bright and lovely as molten gold. Her hands flew up to cradle his face. Regulus felt her fingers thread their way into his dark hair.

“I’m sure,” he said softly.

She melted into him. “Okay,” she smiled. “I’ll see you then. Don’t forget to bring the extra hundred house-elves.”

* * *

_The rooms loomed overhead, large and never-ending. The blacks and greys of their depths stretched on and on. Regulus rounded the walls. He was not sure where he was going, if he even needed to be somewhere, just that he ought to be going. Moving. He knew somehow, by instinct or lesson, that if he didn’t go, something awful would happen. If he did not travel between these rooms, if he did not step from shadow to shadow, if he stopped and stilled—he would never move again._

_So, he kept going. Feet trudging onward. Room after room. Black and grey. Hallways twisting and rearranging. The hollows of Grimmauld Place melted and reformed into the endless, winding floors of Malfoy Manor. The silver frames of high-hung portraits flashed over him. Regulus didn’t stop to look at them. He kept walking. Past the parlor, past the lounge, past the dining hall. He looped through the entire manor until the only place left untouched and unvisited was a long, narrow corridor leading down to a door. It was open just a crack. Light streamed through the sliver in the doorway, spilling onto the floor._

_It was the exit._

_Regulus brightened. He walked faster, steps quick and hurried—jogging at first, then running, then reaching. Hands out, the shadows of the hallway looming ever closer, the walls closing in, the door still so far away. Somehow, impossibly, infuriatingly still so far away._

_If he was just a bit quicker. If he could just—_

“Black!”

The weak light of dawn filtered through the half-shut curtains of the boy’s dormitory. Regulus shot awake, back straight and rigid, heart racing. There was a cold sweat stuck to his forehead. He turned to the source of the shout in something of a haze.

It was Renard, arms crossed over his chest unhappily. “Black!” he said again disapprovingly. “Everyone’s already down at the pitch. Did you forget?”

“Forget?” Regulus croaked, half-feeling like he was still in his dream. (Was that a dream? It was fleeting fast. He could only remember the large rooms and shadows pressing down on him like cinderblocks, but he knew it wasn’t quite a dream. It was a nightmare, but he didn’t know why he had been so frightened during it. It had only been a door.)

“I told you yesterday,” Renard sighed. “Gryffindor had the pitch booked for Fridays at this time, but I managed to convince Hooch to give us their slot and bump them down to the evening instead. That way we get the daylight.”

Regulus vaguely remembered this. “Oh. Er—right,” he began, scrambling out of bed. He reached for some robes. “I’ll be down there in ten.”

“Good. And when you get there, you can do a lap for every minute you were late.”

And he did. He ran around the pitch until his legs felt weak and wobbly as jelly. Then, he climbed onto his broom and tore through the air in relentless spirals and dives until his head was spinning from the force of it. By the time practice ended, Regulus’s body was so sore and sleep-deprived, he hardly knew where he was walking. Somehow, amongst the many hallways of the castle, he caught sight of Rosier, whom he shared nearly all his classes with.

Regulus drew himself together and followed after the brown-haired boy. He passed by door after door, all the same in appearance, in the slant of the wood, in the size of the frame, all the same in that none were the door Regulus was looking for. He dragged his feet on, marching, following. Rosier disappeared into a door at the end of the corridor. Regulus went inside only a moment later.

It was Transfiguration. McGonagall was ruffling through some scrolls of parchment by her desk, waiting for class to begin. Regulus’s gaze spun over the class. There was Rosier, of course, lounging at a desk in the middle of the class. There was Gudgeon, goofing off near the back with a few of his friends. And then, in the very corner, there was Grace—hunched over her table, hands closed tightly, frowning heavily. But she might as well have been beaming, because that’s how Regulus saw her: a beacon of light in the dim classroom, the only good thing left in the world.

His feet brought her to him before his brain could tell them to. He collapsed into the seat next to her and began to pull out _A Guide to Advanced Transfiguration_.

Grace stared at him, alarmed. “Regulus,” she hissed.

“Yes?” The word fell from his mouth like sap being leeched from a tree—slow, dreary. He barely heard the word leave him.

“You’re not supposed to sit here.”

His brows knitted together. “What?”

He looked up, first at Grace, whose hands were wrung into each other, and then at the front of the classroom, where Ophelia Greengrass was making her way in. The auburn-haired girl strolled inside, bag slung leisurely over her shoulder. She made it halfway towards Grace’s table before stopping mid-stride and frowning tightly.

Because she was supposed to be sitting with Grace. Because they had been sitting together since the start of the year. Because Regulus had become a Death Eater and stopped partnering with Grace.

The reality of the situation hit him violently, and he nearly fell out of his chair. “Oh, Merlin, Grace,” he said frantically. Greengrass didn’t know they had made up. Greengrass thought Regulus was becoming a Death Eater and Grace was trying to stop him. If he and Grace were suddenly sitting together but there was no indication that he had been ‘saved,’ then Greengrass would start thinking… “I didn’t realize. I’m sorry. I—I forgot—”

Grace swallowed thickly, tearing her eyes away from Greengrass, who wordlessly moved on to a different table. “It’s okay. If she asks, I’ll make something up,” she said, but she sounded so tired, too.

Guilt crushed Regulus like a boulder. He should have been paying more attention. He should have gotten more sleep. He should have finished his work faster so he could have gone to bed earlier. He should have—

“Are you okay?” Grace asked after a moment, eyeing him.

Regulus tried to swallow down his anxiety. He refused to meet her gaze, keeping his eyes fixed steadily on McGonagall. “I’m fine.”

“Are you sure?”

Her voice was filled with such warmth and care that, for a moment, Regulus wanted to do nothing more than fall into it. But to fall would mean to stop, and there could be no stopping. There wasn’t a moment to rest, and, besides, he didn’t want to worry Grace with pointless nightmares or Quidditch stress. What did any of that matter next to their plan? What did that matter next to his mistake?

“I’m sure,” he said quietly.

She gave a small nod and looked away, glancing back at Greengrass, who was sitting three tables over. Regulus hoped he could make this up to her.

“A—are we still on for dinner tonight?” he asked.

“I can’t,” she said, voice low and sorry. “I have detention.”

Concern bloomed within him. “Detention? How?”

Her lips pursed. She looked away from him. “Jenkins was saying something.”

She didn’t have to say anything more. Regulus knew this was because of the rumors that had begun at the start of term. Although most students were now occupied with other news—mostly the latest Death Eater attacks—there were a few who still stopped in the hallway to sneer at Grace. Jenkins was likely one of them. Jenkins was also likely in the Hospital Wing now.

“I’m sure he deserved it,” Regulus said lightly.

“He did.”

“Do you want to try for tomorrow night?”

“For dinner?”

“Yeah.”

Her eyes flickered up to meet his. Dark circles were rung underneath. It had been so long since Regulus had seen Grace well-rested that they didn’t even seem out of place anymore. “Don’t you have patrol tomorrow?”

He blinked in surprise. “No, I don’t. It’s Wednesday today.”

“Regulus, it’s Thursday.”

How could that be? He tried to recall each day of the week, but it was a blur of memory, a daze of tossing and turning in bed, being abruptly woken up, running through the bitter cold, running down stairs and through hallways, running his hand across paper, running his mind over problems, running and running and running…

“Oh,” he said faintly.

* * *

Nights became longer than days. Nightmares kept Regulus up so often that he soon found himself waiting out the night, staring up at the deep emerald of his hangings, waiting for the minutes to pass, for the sun to rise, for another day of running to begin.

He proved to be immeasurably patient. Soon, it was the end of the month and the day of the Slytherin-Gryffindor match. Haggard and uncaring, Regulus staggered onto the field, following the procession of his teammates. The Slytherin stands up above roared with approval as the team came into view. They were quickly drowned out by a volley of boos issuing from the other stands.

“—and Seeker Regulus Black!” Ewan Finchley finished.

Regulus’s eyes swung up to the commentator’s booth. He frowned as he caught sight of Finchley’s silhouette against the glass. He harbored an intense dislike for the commentator simply because he was the younger brother of Mira Finchley, who, as far as Regulus knew, was singlehandedly responsible for spreading at least three different rumors about Grace’s ‘burning hate’ for her parents.

“The captains are shaking their hands—and, apparently, locked in a staring contest,” Finchley rattled off.

Regulus looked over to the center of the field where, indeed, Renard and Halloway were staring at each other fiercely, eyes wide and unrelenting. They refused to part for several seconds, each apparently waiting for the other to back out first. It was only after Hooch gave a warning blow of her whistle that the two separated and returned to their respective teams, but not without glaring darkly at the other first.

Regulus mounted his brooms as his teammates did. Hovering over the ground, he waited until Hooch blew her whistle before shooting off into the air. He searched the air for the Gryffindor Seeker, a fourth-year girl by the name of Mia Kao, and found her fluttering far above the Gryffindor hoops, already scanning the field for the Snitch. Regulus settled himself near the center of the pitch but far above the action.

“—Renko has got the Quaffle!” Finchley announced. “Renko goes straight for the goal. Gryffindor Chasers Halloway and Henderson are right on his tail, angling to catch the Quaffle as he tosses it. Gryffindor Beater Wilson shoots a well-aimed Bludger Renko’s way just as he reaches the Gryffindor goals, but—oh! Slytherin Beater Selwyn dives forward and knocks the Bludger away before it can hit his teammate!”

Slytherins cheered with reckless abandon. Gryffindors protested the save. Regulus wondered if he might have been able to get out of his match by feigning sick.

“Renko shoots but—oh, this is a shock!—he aims too far left and Gryffindor Seeker Kao swoops forward and bats it away. That’s right, folks—the _Seeker_ batted it away while Gryffindor’s Keeper continues to guard the rightmost hoops.”

Regulus frowned from his perch. He leaned forward hesitantly, watching the Gryffindor side of the pitch with confusion. Something wasn’t quite right.

Evidently, Ludwig and Selwyn thought the same. They raced through the field and began to knock Bludgers in Kao’s direction, hoping to drive her away from the Gryffindor’s goals and prevent her from helping the Keeper. This only served to anger Gryffindor’s Beaters, who were now intercepting Selwyn and Ludwig’s throws and re-routing them towards _Regulus_.

He dropped down a meter in the air as a Bludger whistled past him. Another was, thankfully, blocked by a harried Selwyn.

“While Slytherin Chaser Renard attempts to keep the Quaffle away from the Gryffindor Chasers, the Slytherin and Gryffindor Beaters are now engaged in a battle to see who can knock the other team’s Seeker out of the sky first. Quite an interesting—perhaps even risky—game plan if I say so myself.”

Regulus rolled back on his broom as he narrowly avoided yet another Bludger. Selwyn came back to his rescue, looping around to slam the Bludger away yet again. It barely made it a meter before one of the Gryffindor Beaters, Eric Bones, hit it back, this time aiming for Selwyn.

It was too close to stop with his bat, so Selwyn was forced to do a barrel roll and avoid the path of the Bludger. He righted himself on his broom and faced Bones angrily. “WHAT THE FUCK’S WRONG WITH YOU?” he shouted.

Bones’s lips were twisted into a scowl. “WHAT THE FUCK’S WRONG WITH _YOU_?”

“WHAT?!”

Regulus decided to use this moment to fly away from the zooming Bludgers. Just as he reared his broom forward, he saw Bones throw down his bat. It tumbled down to the ground. Regulus stopped mid-motion, absolutely baffled by the absurdity of the match.

Selwyn was, too. “WHAT’RE YOU—”

Bones thrust one gloved hand into the depths of his robes and pulled out his wand. He lunged forward, swiping his wand through the air. A jet of orange light flew from the other end. Selwyn dove out of the way. The spell hit the middle ring of the Slytherin hoops, setting it aflame.

Selwyn’s eyes nearly bugged out of his head. “WHAT THE—”

“THAT’S FOR KILLING MY MUM AND DAD!” Bones roared, raising his wand once more.

Realization hit Regulus. Nearly all of Bones’s family had been wiped out during the summer in a Death Eater raid. In a frenzy, Regulus urged his broom forward, trying to put as much distance between himself and Bones as possible. There was no telling what he might do next.

“Holy mackerel!” Finchley shouted from the booth. “It seems the Slytherin and Gryffindor Beaters are now _dueling_ in mid-air. The captains are joining the fray now, hopefully to talk some sense into—no, nope, they’re joining the duel, too, it turns out.” 

Hooch blew her whistle, the shrill sound ricocheting through the field. Regulus brought his broom to a halt, hovering far above the stadium, but no other player did. The Slytherins, incensed by the gall to _attack_ one of their own, were now fanning out over the field, trying to trap the Gryffindor players. Jets of light flew between the two teams. Renard was screaming at Halloway. The Quaffle lay down in the field below, stuck in the dirt and long-forgotten.

Hooch flew up into the middle of the fight, waving her arms wildly, trying to stop the duel from escalating—but it was already too late. Hexes and jinxes were flying over the field. Regulus maneuvered himself out of the way, angling his broom away from the brewing storm. He reached into his pockets for his own wand and cast a shield charm as soon as he found it. A spell aimed his way rebounded off of it and hit Ludwig instead, causing thick ropes to appear out of thin air and trap her. She lost balance on her broom and was bucked off, hurtling towards the ground.

The stands were booing and cheering all at once. Professors were rapidly exiting their seats to help diffuse the situation. Hooch lunged forward to help Ludwig.

The remaining Slytherins roared in fury and shot their own mix of curses at the Gryffindors. The field was awash in magic. Sparks and flashes of light flooded the sky. Gryffindors and Slytherins alike were knocked from the sky by rebound spells. Regulus ducked through the onslaught, trying to keep out of the way. He dove down, hoping to touch ground and make it to the safety of the stands. Just as he was beginning his descent, a jet of red light hit him in the back.

His body seized up. Immobile and unable to control his broom, Regulus found himself thrown off. In a matter of seconds, he was plummeting to the ground. He willed himself to move, for the Stun Spell to wear off, but it was to no avail. It did not matter how much Regulus wished and hoped. He was still falling.

* * *

He awoke to a deep throbbing at the base of his head. He groaned and shifted over, one hand reaching back, trying to snatch away the pain.

Another hand stopped him—smooth and gentle.

“What’s…?”

“You’re in the Hospital Wing.”

Regulus blinked blearily and rolled over. He hefted himself up and took a look around. It was indeed the Hospital Wing: cots arranged along the walls, vials of potions floating through the air, groaning and grumbling students confined to bed. Across and around him were members of the Slytherin and Gryffindor teams alike, some guzzling down goblets of draughts, others sound asleep (or perhaps unconscious). Regulus turned to his right and saw Grace.

His heart flew into his throat.

“It’s not bad,” she assured him softly. “You cracked your skull when you hit the ground. Pomfrey administered a little Skele-Gro while you were unconscious.”

Regulus skimmed a hand over the back of his head and hissed when he hit a tender spot.

Grace nearly shot out of her seat. “It still hurts?” she questioned. “I can get Pomfrey to—”

“No, no,” he assured her instantly. He didn’t want her to go. “It’s fine. I’m fine.”

She eyes him uneasily. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.” His eyes darted across the room, tracing over the other players. “What happened? How long was I out for?”

“It’s only been a few hours. It’s around eight in the evening now. As for what happened…” She sighed heavily. “Dumbledore managed to stop the dueling a few minutes after you went down. We couldn’t really see what was going on from the stands, but he cast something and anyone who was still on their broomstick was frozen in mid-air. He was furious. Slytherin and Gryffindor have both lost two hundred points.”

Regulus couldn’t give a damn about House points. “How come so many of us are in here? Other than me, I only remember Ludwig falling from her broom.”

Grace grimaced. “There were other injuries. I caught sight of Halloway when he was being carried in. His whole arm was torn up. I think it might’ve been a dark curse…”

Bile crawled up the back of Regulus’s throat. “Oh…”

They settled into an uneasy silence. Regulus felt the weight of the world pressing into him. Was this how bad it was now? They couldn’t even have a Quidditch match without hurling hexes and spells each other’s way?

Grace shot him a fretful glance. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“I am.” He didn’t know how to tell her he wasn’t.

She rose from her chair. “I’m going to get some draught from Pomfrey. The dose of Skele-Gro was small, but it probably still hurts.”

“No, Grace, you don’t have to—”

But she didn’t make it out of the small alcove. As soon as she took a step forward, another face appeared in front of the gap between the curtains. Tall and unnervingly cool, Ophelia Greengrass stepped through. Grace stared up at her with something like shock, her brain trying to puzzle out why Greengrass had come here.

“O—Ophelia?” Grace choked out.

“So, you were here,” Greengrass said loftily.

“What?”

“We were supposed to finish our Transfiguration essay in the library together. You didn’t come. The only reason you wouldn’t show is if something happened.” Greengrass’s eyes flickered down to Regulus. “This is the only thing that happened.”

“I was just checking on Regulus,” Grace tried to explain away.

Greengrass pursed her lips. “Don’t make the mistake of thinking I’m a fool,” she snapped.

“I—I didn’t—”

“I knew something was off,” Greengrass cut in. Her voice had always been sharp—needling, biting—but today it was absolutely devastating. There was something enormous stirring underneath her words, some beast that had been awoken. Her icy blue eyes flickered between Grace and Regulus. “I thought, for a moment, you two had made up. It would make sense. It’s what you wanted.” Her eyes landed on Grace, and she shrank under the intensity of Greengrass’s glare. “You wanted to help him. But if you did that, if you accomplished your goal—why does he still sit with Yaxley and Rosier?”

Regulus could see Greengrass working through the events of the past few weeks. He didn’t know what all she had seen, what she had noticed, what she had pieced together. She might have been suspicious from the start. She might have seen Snyde come up to Grace now and again. She might have seen how little Rosier and Yaxley sneered at Grace nowadays.

Greengrass’s pale eyes flitted between them before landing solidly on Grace and narrowing in suspicion. She moved forward, arms darting out, and before either of them had a chance to react, her hands caught onto Grace’s left arm. The sleeve was forced up and the Dark Mark—inky and coiling against Grace’s golden skin—came into view. Greengrass dropped Grace’s hand like it was fire. Grace rose like a whip, tugging her sleeve back down, mouth opening and closing, trying to find something to say. But what could she say?

Greengrass’s face closed off; every ounce of suspicion and fear bled away. She stared at Grace, unfeeling, cold and implacable. “Traitor,” she said, and then turned her back on Grace and walked away from the cot without a single glance back. 

Regulus looked to Grace and saw the weight of that single word work through her. It was crushing, shattering. The lines and planes of Grace’s face crumpled and fell. The worst thing a Slytherin could be, after all, was a traitor.

He searched for something comforting to tell her but came up with nothing. What could he tell her? That it wasn’t true? No matter what happened, they were traitors. While they were Death Eaters, they were traitors to those who weren’t. Once they became spies, they would simply be traitors to the Death Eaters. There was no escaping this brand. The only person they would not be betraying was each other.

“Grace…”

“Don’t,” she said, voice on the cusp of collapse. “Don’t say anything.”

She moved forward, and each step was hard and unrelenting. She wrapped her hands around the curtains and flung them together, shadowing the two of them. And then she turned back around, sharp and fast. Her eyes were cloudy with unshed tears. Regulus felt choked at the sight.

“I’m fine,” she said, voice strained and splintering.

“You’re not,” he said, and his voice was wavering, too.

“But it’s what we say. It’s what we always say. _I’m fine._ Even when it’s so blatantly _not_ fine.” She pressed the hilt of her palms against her eyes and bowed her head. “Why do we say that, Regulus? Why do we keep saying that?”

It hurt him to see her so distraught, like an arrow sinking deep into his heart. He had never known Grace to be so deeply unhappy. She was a ball of bright light when things went her way and a roaring flame when they didn’t. She was hardly ever sad and sluggish. Regulus wished he could drink her misery into his own soul—but he already had so much of his own.

“I don’t know,” he admitted after a moment. “I suppose…it’s so we don’t worry the other.”

“But we should. We should worry about each other. I want to worry about you, Regulus.” She moved her hands away and turned to him. Her eyes were teary but fierce. “I want to worry about you, and I want you to worry about me. We only have each other now.”

“I know, Grace. I know.”

They stared at each other. An awful, stony silence ate away at his insides. He didn’t know what to do or what to say. The world had just been flipped on its head. What was Greengrass going to do, knowing what she did about Grace? What was Grace going to do?

Grace lumbered back to her chair and sat down heavily. “Should I start?”

“Start what?”

“Telling you how I really feel,” Grace said quietly. She didn’t wait for his reaction before launching right into the thick of it: “It’s only been a month, and I’m already sick of this. Not—not of you and the other you-know-whats. Not of the plan. It’s…it’s the rumors. They’re not as present anymore, but they were in the beginning and—and I _know_ I shouldn’t care about what other students are saying about me, but I _do_. It _hurts_ to hear them say I hate Mum and Dad, that I’ve always hated them, that I was _happy_ when they died. It’s—it’s so _cruel_ to hear.” She was blinking away tears. “And I keep feeling guilty thinking about it, because it shouldn’t matter—not when we’ve already got so much on our plate, not when we should be focusing on the plan—but I can’t help it. I…I can’t…”

Regulus was reaching for her hands. “You’re allowed to be upset about that, Grace,” he consoled quietly. His own voice was thick and choked. “It’s okay if you—”

She shook her head wildly. “But it’s not! It’s not because I keep hearing that James must have never liked me. That he must have realized, and that’s why he pulled me aside at the funeral. And—and—what if they’re right? I keep having these dreams of James. I’ll be going to our cottage to tell him everything, and he’ll tell me he doesn’t want to be a part of it, that what I’m doing is stupid, that he likes not having me in the house—” her voice was breaking but she surged on, “—that he doesn’t want me to be his sister. And I just… I want to go to him _now_ and just tell him _everything_ and have it be done with so I don’t have this stupid fucking nightmare anymore, but we don’t have anything useful to give him yet so of course we can’t. I just have to sit here and _wait_. Every day is just waking up and _waiting_ and not having the friends I used to have and having nightmares about James leaving or You-Know-Who torturing me, and—and—_nothing_ is fine.” She took a deep breath, steadying herself, and turned her aching eyes on Regulus.

His mouth was dry. “Grace, I’m sorry—”

She shook her head. “You don’t have to say anything. I just needed to say it. Tell me how you feel now.”

“I—I—” He was having a hard time gathering his voice. There was so much roiling within him, some great whirlpool of emotion he had been smothering and stuffing down deep inside him for years and years now—ever since Sirius left. He didn’t know what would happen once he unleashed it, but he knew Grace was right. They only had each other. They could only trust each other now. “I’m afraid,” he admitted at last.

“Of what?”

“I don’t know exactly… I just know that I am. I feel like something terrible is going to happen every day. I feel like something terrible _does_ happen every day—Renard screaming me awake in the morning and Bannerjee pestering me about patrols and Dumbledore glancing at me from the teachers’ table during meals and all the Runes work I’ve been assigned and—and—I know it’s nothing to do with our plan, but it still bothers me. I wish it would all stop. I wish _I_ could just stop, but I know I can’t. I can’t. I have to keep doing all of this, so I can keep doing our plan. I think—I think I’m afraid that if I stop or if I mess up, someone will get suspicious, someone will find out what we’re doing, and our plan will fall apart. I’m so afraid I’m going to mess it up, Grace. I’m so afraid that our plan—” the door from his nightmares suddenly flashed in his mind, that long hallway, his hand extending and extending and never quite reaching the knob, “—will never succeed despite our best efforts.”

She reached for his hand and folded it into hers. “If this plan doesn’t work, we’ll try another one.”

“And if that one doesn’t work?”

“Then we try another one. And if that one fails, we try another. We keep trying. We think and we try something new.”

Regulus didn’t doubt this. Between the two of them, there was always a backup plan. But when would the planning end? When would he finally be allowed to stop? He had not been offered a moment alone since Sirius left. Every day had been spent piecing back together the fragile image of the House of Black. Every day had been spent saving face: becoming heir to the family, becoming a Prefect, becoming a Death Eater. Every day had been spent for someone other than himself. Every day had been spent running and running to keep the wheel of his family moving. Regulus wanted to do nothing more than rest.

He didn’t know how to tell her all this, but he didn’t have to. Her gaze didn’t lift from his.

“You still feel awful,” she noted.

“Yeah.”

“Good. Me, too.”

And as soon as she said it, he realized that was all he really needed to hear. As long as he was running, Grace would be, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you’re all safe and well! If you’re social distancing or self-isolating, I hope this chapter brought you a little entertainment. I’m also stuck indoors for the foreseeable future, so maybe I’ll be pumping out more chapters? We’ll see.
> 
> This was originally supposed to be from Grace’s POV but I kept hitting a dead end. So, I switched over to Regulus. I hope it’s not too awkward or strange to read. I’ve been cobbling this chapter together for a while now, so I feel like some parts read smoother than others. 
> 
> As always, thank you for the comments and kudos. Please keep letting me know what you think!


	13. Scream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grace splinters under the constraints of her plans. Regulus is whisked away for a private meeting. A familiar face makes an appearance.

“Miss Grace is not touching the eggs. Should Pokey fetch apple pie instead?”

Grace, who had been listlessly scratching the tines of her fork against the edge of the plate, stilled and looked to her side, where sweet Pokey was dutifully waiting for an answer.

“Er—sure,” Grace said, laying down her fork. “Thanks, Pokey.”

The purple house-elf beamed and rushed off to one of the many countertops to prepare the much-loved dessert. Grace turned back to her full plate and buried her sigh deep within her chest. Truthfully, she didn’t feel like eating anything, but if she refused the pie, Pokey would fret. At least one of them should be happy, right?

Grace lifted her eyes and saw that Regulus was pushing around his own food limply. They had, at long last, managed to have a moment alone (although it was breakfast instead of dinner), as Regulus’s schedule had been greatly relieved ever since Dumbledore and McGonagall decided that Quidditch would be “taking a break” following the disastrous Slytherin versus Gryffindor match. Before the incident in the Hospital Wing, Grace had thought their little date in the Hogwarts kitchens would be light-hearted and carefree. Now, she was wondering why on earth she had _ever_ thought that might be the case. It wasn’t just the two of them who were stressed or worried; a general air of tension and anxiety hung over the entire school. Even fun classes, like Charms or Potions, seemed lifeless nowadays, the daily agenda consisting of nothing more than a droll lecture. Quidditch was now canceled for the foreseeable future, depriving many students of a creative outlet. The vibrant chatter that used to fill the Great Hall during meals was now dull and muted, in part because there were fewer students attending Hogwarts this term. Why had Grace ever thought she and Regulus would have even a sliver of cheer in the kitchens? There was no escaping the gloomy, solemn mood that shrouded the castle.

Regulus’s eyes flickered up to meet her own. The corners of his lips twitched, on the verge of opening and volleying a question in her direction, before relaxing. He looked down hastily.

“You can ask,” Grace said. She already knew what he was going to say. It was the same thing she had been wondering for the past two days.

“I don’t want to ruin breakfast.”

_It’s already ruined_, she thought glumly, picking her fork back up and mechanically shoving a morsel of scrambled eggs into her mouth.

“It’s about Ophelia, right?” she said after a moment.

Regulus nodded jerkily. “Do you think she’ll tell someone?”

“I don’t know,” Grace said honestly. “I don’t think so. She already knew Rosier was a Death Eater, ever since the beginning of term, but she never breathed a word. She said no one would’ve believed her, especially since Rosier’s parents have some sway in the Wizengamot.”

“Really?” he questioned. “That can’t be right.”

“It’s what she said.”

“But someone would believe her,” he argued. “If not the entire Wizengamot, then maybe a few. She wouldn’t even have to go to the Wizengamot. She’d just have to go to Dumbledore.”

“Sure,” Grace granted. “Maybe she just didn’t think on it enough.”

As soon as she said it, she knew that couldn’t be the case. Although they’d only been friends for a few months, Grace knew full well that Ophelia Greengrass thought long and hard about the decisions she made. The auburn-haired girl thought deeply on every sentence she wrote for her essays, on every rune she translated from ancient tomes, on every spell cast from the end of her wand. It couldn’t be that she had simply brushed over Rosier’s identity as a Death Eater. She must have thought about it for a very long time before deciding to keep it a secret.

“She’s afraid,” Grace realized. “If she were to tell someone that Rosier was a Death Eater and one of ours found out…”

“She likely wouldn’t make it to the trial,” Regulus finished quietly.

A solemn, stilted silence settled between them. It was only interrupted when Pokey bounded back happily with a plate of steaming apple pie perched delicately in the center. Grace took the dessert gratefully and smiled indulgently at the house-elf as she took the first bite. Pokey beamed in return before heading back to her station. Once she was out of sight, Grace let her the fork fall from her hand and pushed her plate away.

“If Ophelia’s worried about some sort of retribution, then I don’t think she’d tell anyone about us—or anyone else,” Grace said quietly.

Regulus nodded his agreement. “We’ll still have to be careful. Keep an eye out.”

“Right.”

Briefly, she wondered if she might somehow be able to draw Ophelia into the plan. Surely the cunning Prefect had a few tricks up her sleeve. Her intellect and eye for detail were sharp and keen; she’d be an asset in any situation. But as quickly as the thought passed through Grace’s head, she buried it away. It was dangerous to tell more people than strictly necessary of their plan, and it would be incredibly difficult to get Ophelia to _listen_ to Grace, let alone agree to help them.

Grace glanced up and caught the twitch of Regulus’s lips again. “What is it now?” she sighed.

“If our situation with Greengrass is sorted,” Regulus began carefully, “then we really ought to talk about the Seeing.”

Grace dropped her eyes and picked her fork back up. She stabbed at the crust of her pie. “What about it?” she asked lightly.

She was stalling, and Regulus knew it. The corners of his lips dipped into a small frown. Grace shifted in her seat. She knew what the issue was. Regulus had voiced it much earlier. He believed that You-Know-Who would use the upcoming Death Eater meeting as a chance to test Grace’s ability to See. Grace wasn’t sure if she bought into this, mostly because she didn’t want to. There were a million and one problems being catapulted her way. She would have liked very much to ignore this one, but she couldn’t. It was too important.

“Okay,” she breathed. “You’re right. We should talk about it. It’s just… I’m not sure what can be done. I can’t See. I mean—I _can_. Theoretically. I just don’t know how. And I shouldn’t, as you’ve reminded me nearly every day since you finished deciphering Vablatsky’s journal.”

Regulus had pulled out the journal in question from his knapsack. He fluttered through the pages dejectedly. “Yeah, you’ve pretty much summed up the situation…”

There wasn’t anything more to say. The problem was much greater than Grace simply figuring out the mechanism to See. All of the later entries in Vablatsky’s journal explicitly warned against attempting to tap into Grace’s Inner Eye, for fear she might be consumed by it. Half of the journal wasn’t even about Divination, according to Regulus. It catalogued Grace’s burgeoning Occlumency skills and the need to cut off her connection with her Inner Eye. The message was clear: Grace was not supposed to See.

But that was the one thing You-Know-Who wanted her to do.

“Earlier in the journal,” Regulus said, flipping back to the beginning, “Vablatsky does mention you have a proclivity for tarot reading.”

“It’s the easiest medium to predict with. For me, at least.” Grace’s brows raised. “Oh—and, really, it depends on how well-attuned the _other_ person’s Inner Eye is, not the reader’s. Because you’re really just interpreting what they’ve picked out. Tarot reading would be safe for me, then, right?”

Regulus looked up to meet her bright gaze. He hesitated slightly. “Yeah, I suppose, but... You can’t just do a tarot reading for You-Know-Who. That’s not what he’s looking for. He—he wants visions or a prophecy or _something_, not—”

“Well, he’ll have to settle for this,” Grace said resolutely. “If he’d gotten Vablatsky during the summer, did he expect her to spit out visions and prophecies nonstop? It’s not feasible. No Seer can just control something like that.”

“That’s true.” Regulus’s eyes returned to the journal. “I dunno, Grace…”

“I could make something up, too,” she continued. “If he wants visions, I could say I Saw something a while ago, in my dreams or in a crystal ball or something.”

“No, you can’t do that,” Regulus said, aghast. “If he asks you if and when, say, Aurors are planning to ambush us, you can’t just make something up. If you’re wrong, he’ll have your head.”

“Then it’ll have to be tarot reading. If he asks me a specific question like that, I can only get a straight answer with tarot cards.” She frowned. “I’ll have to keep it vague, though. I don’t want to give him something he can actually use.”

Regulus pushed aside the journal and let it fall to a close. He leaned forward, elbows propped on the table, fingers circling his temples. “This is mental,” he breathed.

“Yeah,” she agreed. “But what else can we do?”

She expected some form of quiet agreement from Regulus—a slight nod, a dejected exhale—but he didn’t do or say anything at all. A crease settled between his brows. His eyes flickered up to meet hers.

“_Is_ there something else we can do?” she pressed.

“Well…”

“What?”

“We could tell your brother—”

Her spine stiffened. “Reg—”

“Just—hear me out,” he said. “If we went to your brother, if _you_ went and explained what happened, what You-Know-Who expects from you, of course he’d help. And he could get the Order to help, too. He could get you information—real, verified information from them—that you could pass off a ‘vision’ you’ve had, should You-Know-Who ask.”

“We can’t,” Grace said immediately, almost wearily. “I have nothing to give him. I haven’t proved my use. If I went to James now, he’d want me to stop—before I went to the meeting, before things became final.”

But it went deeper than that. She didn’t dare voice it, didn’t dare give it credence or weight, but she felt it severely. What if James didn’t want to listen? _Then go_, he had said at the funeral. (That voice of his had always been too loud. It had been weeks, and she could still hear it thundering across the back of her mind.) _If you’re so tired of us, then go._ And she had. She had gone far, far away. What would he do when she came back? What if he didn’t want her back? This fear of hers was gigantic, all-consuming. It ate her up at night, kept her tossing and turning in bed. She oscillated between the violent belief that James would take her back—because he was her brother, because he had always taken her back, no matter how petty and unnecessary their previous arguments had been—and the paralyzing fear that he wouldn’t. That he would shut the door in her face. That she had hurt him too deeply that day. (She hadn’t meant to. The words came out of their own accord, from some deep, dark part of herself.) She wanted to collapse into the comfort of home and him—but she was afraid it simply was not possible. She was afraid she had done something irreversible that day. She was afraid they were too different, James and she, and that they had only just begun to realize the depth of that difference.

Regulus didn’t say anything more. He didn’t refute her. Perhaps he could see past her words, into that hidden layer she kept tucked in the corners of her mind. Perhaps he understood. Perhaps he had felt the same with Sirius. After the older Black had run away, Regulus had waited and wished. He had thought Sirius would come back. It was his brother, after all. Brothers came back. Brothers returned.

They polished off the rest of their breakfast in silence before heading to class. Every step of the way, Grace found herself consumed with thoughts of James—until she passed through the doorway of the DADA classroom and spotted Ophelia. The auburn-haired girl had chosen a new seat, as expected. She was pointedly sitting next to Davey Gudgeon, which felt like a very big _fuck you_ indeed. Grace found herself feeling more dejected than irritated. They hadn’t been friends for very long, but Ophelia had been a friend when it counted, when Grace really needed one, when Grace did not have Regulus. Now, she had him, but at the cost of so many others. Again, her thoughts drew back to James.

Grace sat at her usual seat. Regulus took the chair next to hers. Underneath the table, he caught Grace’s hand and gave it a gentle squeeze.

“It’s only temporary,” he reminded her quietly.

“Right,” she breathed.

It was only a performance. It was only for a moment—but what a long moment it was.

* * *

For about the hundredth time since she returned for spring term, Grace found herself huddled in the library. She was seated in the neat little alcove Regulus had dedicated to studying and completing assignments. He wasn’t here now (he had Study of Ancient Runes on Fridays), but a few of his books and spare scrolls of parchments remained. Splattered across Regulus’s things were Grace’s, although they weren’t related to school in the slightest. They were _Prophet_ articles spanning from late December to early January. Grace had managed to get her hands on them after pestering Pince to update the library’s collection of old newspaper clippings.

She was studying them voraciously now, trying to piece together every attack that had happened over holiday, trying to understand what could have discouraged Dirk from returning to Hogwarts. So far, she had come up with nothing. As far as she could tell, none of the old articles mentioned Tutshill at all, not even in passing. Sighing, she gathered the clippings in her hands and began her way back to Pince. Perhaps the old librarian was holding out on her. There had to be more than just _this_. There had to be more that explained what had happened to Dirk.

Just as she rounded the corner, she found herself face-to-face with Audrey Abbott. Her honey-blonde hair fell loosely over her shoulders, and her dark eyes flickered over Grace briefly before landing on the pile of articles gathered in her hands. Something in her clicked.

“You, too, huh?” Abbott sighed.

Grace was slowly inching away from Abbott. “What?”

“I was just doing that, too,” Abbott said quietly, pointing at the stack in Grace’s hands. “Looking at old _Prophet_ articles. I figured if Cresswell didn’t come back, it was because something happened at his town, right?”

Grace stared at Abbott. She had never known the blonde to hold a soft spot for Cresswell. “Er—yeah.”

“But nothing’s happened.” Abbott ran a hand through her curls. “I think it’s just…he’d had enough. His parents were pressuring him to come home because of all the attacks. They wanted to go into hiding. And...it wasn’t like he was having a particularly good time _here_, y’know. Rosier had it out for him the minute he made Head Boy. A lot of Slytherins did.” Her eyes refocused on Grace and seemed to catch sight of the Slytherin insignia embroidered on her robes. Her cheeks flushed. “Er—I mean, not _all_, just, you know… Quite a few.”

“Right,” Grace said emptily. “He—he told you all that, did he?”

She shrugged slightly. “Not so much in words. I just noticed.”

Grace turned slightly and stuffed the old _Prophet_ editions into an empty spot on a nearby shelf. Her hands fell to her sides before lifting to her forehead, rubbing at her temples. She shut her eyes. Had she really been that deeply invested in herself and Regulus last term? To the point she had never noticed Cresswell was being bullied by Rosier? To the point he’d realized he couldn’t even confide in her anymore?

“Merlin,” she breathed.

“Yeah,” Abbott nodded. “It’s a lot.”

Grace dropped her hands and straightened herself. “Thanks,” she said wearily. “I didn’t think to ask his other friends.”

Abbott smiled softly. “It’s on me, too. I didn’t think to tell his other—”

“Grace, is that you?” a bright, eager voice called out.

Grace’s head whipped to the side. At the end of the aisle of bookshelves was a beaming, sprightly Sophia Hornby.

“Oh, hello,” Grace said weakly, wondering how on earth she was to get out of this situation. The other Death Eaters, save Regulus, weren’t aware that Grace was hanging around a third-year Ravenclaw with inferior ancestry, and she was determined to keep it that way. Unfortunately, this had resulted in Grace avoiding Sophia every chance she got. The only time she managed to see the young girl nowadays was during Care of Magical Creatures.

“I’ll see you around, Potter,” Abbott said kindly, and began to walk away before Grace could even _hope_ of tagging along and escaping the dismal situation she was now trapped in.

Sophia bounded up to Grace with endless energy. If she was at all miffed that Grace had been steadily ignoring here these past few weeks, she certainly didn’t show it. She smiled widely and said, “I’m so glad I caught you! I feel like I haven’t seen you in _ages_. We can walk to Care of Magical Creatures together.”

Grace would have liked nothing more than to go on a stroll to Kettleburn’s slipshod classroom while Sophia prattled on about how her runes studies were coming along. Grace yearned for that normalcy—but she never knew where Yaxley, Rosier, and the others were lounging about. If one of them caught sight of her accompanying Sophia—sweet Sophia, whose father was a half-blood, whose mother was Muggle-born—there would be questions.

“Er—well,” Grace began, avoiding Sophia’s gaze, “I’ve actually got to head somewhere first, but maybe next—”

“I’ll come with you!” Sophia offered immediately. “We haven’t spoken except for in class. I’ve got _so much_ to tell you, Grace. You won’t believe what Green did last week—”

“Right, well, maybe you could tell me later?” Grace said. “I’m a tad busy now.”

“Oh, are you doing more research? I could help you finish up, if you want, and then we could head over to class together.”

Grace stifled her sigh. A litany of excuses and arguments ran through Grace’s mind, but it would be even more suspicious if she continued to reject Sophia so directly. Grace decided to settle on a distraction.

“Er—all right, then, before we go, do you mind helping me find something? I’m looking for a book about—er—Quidditch injuries in the Medieval Ages,” Grace made up wildly.

Sophia’s brows furrowed. “Oh… Have you checked the sports section? Or—” she began to trace along the stacks of books by her side, “—it could be in the medical section. Let me see…”

Grace waited patiently until the young girl was out of sight. The moment she turned, Grace fled back to her little alcove in the back of the library and gathered her knapsack. She slunk out of the library quietly, careful not to catch Sophia’s attention. As soon as she was out, she booked it towards the edge of the Forbidden Forest, where Kettleburn’s outdoor classroom lay.

She arrived panting for air and dropped her knapsack against the foot of a gnarled tree. After resting against the trunk and letting the panic clear from her head, she realized that dashing out of the library and leaving Sophia behind might not have been the best idea she ever had. It was certain to raise more questions. But Sophia had been a good sport all this while; she likely wouldn’t take this to heart.

In just a short while, Grace realized how wrong she was. Barely five minutes passed before Sophia arrived—and with her came a cloud of devastation and irritation. The poor Ravenclaw stamped her way across the clearing, lips scrunched into a small, powerful grimace, brows furrowed into a tight, irritated scrawl. With each step she took, Grace found her heart sinking lower and lower into her body, until it seemed to have reached the ground and left her entirely. What could she say to Sophia? How could she explain without explaining?

“You left without me!” Sophia said once she was within earshot. Her arms crossed over her chest tightly. “You—you said we’d go together, and—and—” She stopped herself and simply stared at Grace for a moment. Her features morphed from angry to deeply hurt. “I can’t believe you did that.”

“I’m sorry,” Grace said, and she truly was. “I realized I forgot something in my dormitory, and I rushed out to—”

“No,” Sophia interrupted, shaking her head. Her dark brown eyes flitted over Grace. “No—you’ve been avoiding me for the past month, ever since you came back. You don’t sit with me at the Ravenclaw table anymore. And you won’t stay in the library with me. And you clear off if I approach you in the castle, like—like—you don’t want to be _seen_ with me.” Her eyes were wide and damp. “Like you’re _embarrassed_ of me.”

Grace understood why she thought this, because Sophia had been ‘Horrible Hornby’ for a very long time, because Sophia was difficult to handle—tireless in the way she talked, steamrolling her way through conversations—and so many people chose not to even bother. But for all her rambling and clinginess, she was still bright and lively—a fountain of vibrant spirit and enthusiasm. How could Grace be embarrassed of someone like that?

“Sophia, I—”

“It’s because you’re getting on with your old friends again, isn’t it?” Her voice wavered. Her gaze was unflinching, raw and open, like a wound. “You’re always with your Prefect friend now, and his other friends.”

Grace’s jaw fell slack. After the fallout with Ophelia, she saw little need to keep away from Regulus during meals, so she began to join him at the other end of the Slytherin table, along with the other seventh-years. She didn’t particularly enjoy the atmosphere (Myrcella Rosier had a particularly nasally laugh), but it brought Regulus a sense of comfort and companionship, and Grace didn’t have anyone else to sit with—so why not?

But Sophia had noticed. Grace didn’t know why she had thought the young girl wouldn’t. Even for a Ravenclaw, she was exceptionally bright.

“Oi, what’s going on?” Preston asked in his loud, brash voice, catching sight of Sophia on the brink of tears. Green and Golightly followed swiftly behind. “Potter—what happened?”

Grace’s eyes flickered to a close. She exhaled deeply. There was a terrible thought churning in the back of her mind. What if she just…let it happen? What if she simply stopped fighting this new image of hers? She had tried, in the beginning, to reverse the rumors Rita Skeeter’s article had spread during holiday. She had tried to explain. _It was James, too. We were angry and grieving. I didn’t mean it. _She had hoped Ophelia would seek her out after discovering the Dark Mark on her arm. She had hoped she could explain it. She had it planned. _It’s complicated, but just know it’s not real. I promise it’s not._ Now, here she was, all her friends gone or no longer friends, save for Regulus. What was the point, really, in continuing to string Sophia along? Why not let the bridge burn? Why not accept this new version of herself? The version of Grace that called her sister-in-law a Mudblood on purpose. The version that was happy when her blood traitor parents died. The version that joined You-Know-Who because she wanted to, because she believed in the cause. The version who didn’t want Sophia now that she had Rosier and Snyde and who all else.

“Fine,” Grace croaked out. She looked at Sophia almost mournfully. “You’re right. I have my own friends now. I don’t need you anymore.”

Sophia gaped at her. This was clearly not the response she was expecting. “You don’t… But—but—I thought we were _friends_.”

“We weren’t.” Grace’s heart felt so far away. She remembered that first night back at Hogwarts. She was meant to sit with Regulus and enjoy their last first day at Hogwarts. Instead, it had been Sophia. It had been Sophia who helped her to decipher the runes in Vablatsky’s journal, who resolutely sat with Grace in the library as she pored over tomes about Seer’s Snag. Who but a friend would have assisted with something so boring? “I was just using you.”

Sophia’s words caught in her throat. She stared at Grace, horrified. Behind her, Preston’s face crumpled before carefully flattening out and rearranging itself.

“Come on, Soph,” Preston said immediately, dragging the young girl away from Grace and towards one of the workstations farthest from the front of the class. “Don’t pay it any mind.”

“All Slytherins are like that,” Green tried to pitch in helpfully.

As they disappeared towards the back, Golightly shot Grace a rude hand gesture. Her eyes flickered up to meet his unhappy scowl. She couldn’t find it in herself to feel the slightest bit indignant. She deserved this.

* * *

The day of the Death Eater meeting came far too quickly for Grace’s liking. Snyde had managed to procure six invisibility cloaks from Mercer and handed them out to the others early in the morning. When night fell, the Death Eaters filed out of the castle, concealed in their cloaks, and made their way to the broom shed the Slytherin Quidditch team used to store spare gear and extra broomsticks. The interior was dusty from disuse, with cobwebs stuck to the corners of the ceiling. Grace wrinkled her nose as she caught sight of a row of shoddy broomsticks.

Rosier gingerly took one in his hands and squinted at it. “Whose broomstick is this?”

“I dunno,” Gibbon said as he grabbed the first broomstick he saw. “Someone’s.”

“Someone’s?” Rosier repeated shrilly. As his eyes traveled down the length of the broom, his distaste grew. “It’s got _mud_ on it.”

Gibbon shrugged. “Probably fell into some mud.”

“I want a different broomstick,” Rosier demanded. “I can’t use this!”

“What does it matter which broomstick you use? You’ll be rubbish on it no matter what,” Snyde snickered. He, like Regulus, had brought his own broomstick along and was lounging by the door, waiting for the others to pick theirs.

Rosier opened and closed his mouth several times before finally managing to say, “I just—I’m not good with heights. Which is why I need a _proper_ broomstick. Not this secondhand trash.”

“Well, there’s only secondhand trash in here,” Snyde said.

Rosier looked back at the grimy broomstick he was holding. He seemed faintly nauseated. “I _refuse_ to ride this.”

“Then good luck getting to Malfoy Manor,” Gibbon said curtly.

Grace ran her hand along the broomsticks. There wasn’t a single good model amongst them. Just as her hand stilled along the handle of an old Comet, Regulus came up to her side with his own broom tight in hand. Sleek and recently polished, it seemed to glow under the sparse light.

“Here,” Regulus said, handing his broomstick to her. “It’s better than the spares.”

A wan smile flickered across her face. Warmth burst from her heart. Her hand curled along the glossy edge of Regulus’s broomstick.

“What are you going to use?” she asked.

He grabbed one of the spares at random. “This one looks fine.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah.” His free hand fell to meet hers. He ran his thumb across her knuckles. “I’m sure.”

Grace might’ve fallen into him right then and there—were it not for the fact Rosier was still whining loudly about a _proper_ broomstick to ride.

“Rosier—would you just _pick_ something?” Gibbon snapped. “We’ll be late if we dally any longer here.”

After Yaxley issued a series of threats and Snyde roughly threw a broomstick Rosier’s way, they were finally ready to leave for the designated Apparating spot at Hogsmeade. The Death Eaters slipped out of the old broom shed, mounted their broomsticks, invisibility cloaks draped over them, and set off. Grace’s hands tightened around the handle of her broomstick. With a lurch, she shot into the air, streaming higher and higher, cloak whipping all around her. She remembered the first time she’d ridden a broom—a _real_ broom. It hadn’t been hers, just like the one she was using right now wasn’t hers. It had belonged to James, brand new and well-loved. She’d grabbed it in her small fists, swung her leg over the handle, and whizzed into the air before James could tell her not to. She’d delighted in the feeling, the throw of her body at every sharp turn, the toss and tousle of her hair, the rush of the cool air as it washed over her.

This flight was nothing like that.

Quietly, solemnly, she flew past the blank, open space of the Hogwarts courtyard, over the shimmering surface of the Great Lake, and away from the swaying treetops of the Forbidden Forest. With every inch she traveled, her heart dug deeper into her chest, shrinking and shriveling, hiding itself in the gaps of her ribs, trying to untwine itself from her. She was flying, the wind lifting her, the air whipping around her, but she had never felt heavier. She had never felt more weighed down.

She landed amongst a cluster of hedges just beyond the Shrieking Shack. Snyde had decided on the spot just earlier today, adamant that no one would dare go near here. He might have been right. Although it wasn’t late enough for the residents of Hogsmeade to be at home and asleep, she couldn’t spot anyone near this particular area. She quickly tugged off her invisibility cloak and began to hide it and Regulus’s broomstick amongst some shrubs.

Others whipped off their cloaks, too, and soon she caught sight of Regulus, Rosier, and the rest.

“I’m never getting on a broomstick ever again,” Rosier said as he hid his broom behind the trunk of a stooped tree. He was a bit green.

“Yeah? How’re you planning to get back to the castle, then?” Gibbon asked.

Rosier blanched. “Oh, Merlin…”

“Hey, Potter,” Snyde began, sidling up to Grace, “could I Side-Along with you?”

She glanced at him briefly before continuing to stuff Regulus’s broomstick into the hedge. “I’ve only been to Malfoy Manor once, and I don’t really remember it, so I’ll be Side-Along Apparating with Regulus.”

His face fell. “Oh.”

Yaxley looked up and caught Snyde surveying the other Death Eaters. He scowled. “If you even _think_ about asking to Side-Along with me, I’ll—”

Snyde scoffed. “Well, I wasn’t going to ask you. It’ll take up all your brainpower just to Apparate yourself. You’ll probably splinch me if you take me along.”

“Why you—”

“I’ll take Snyde,” Rosier announced tiredly. “Come on—” he glanced down at the golden watch adorning his wrist, “—we should go now.”

The Death Eaters gathered together. Something grim and hefty replaced the casual air the others had carried with them all this way. Snyde, for the first time, seemed nervous. His lips were pinched together into a tight, serious line. He took Rosier’s hand and the two disappeared with an ear-splitting _crack!_ Yaxley and Gibbon quickly followed suit, leaving Grace and Regulus alone. Overhead, the moon began to make its ascent over the sky. A scattered white light draped over them.

Regulus reached out a hand. “Ready?”

Grace swallowed down her fear, packed it down deep inside her. She laid her palm gently against his. “Always.”

* * *

Regulus Apparated them right onto the marble step leading up to the doorway of Malfoy Manor. Grace cracked her neck and rolled her shoulders as she landed on the step unsteadily. Far behind her, she heard a loud _crack!_ and a shrill scream as Snyde tumbled over Rosier, dragging them both into the ground.

“Get off!” Rosier cried out, voice muffled under Snyde’s robes.

Snyde rolled off and hefted himself up. He threw Rosier a dirty look. “Wouldn’t have happened if you were better at Apparating.”

“It wouldn’t have happened if you weren’t trying to move around so much!”

Regulus’s hand reached for the golden handle of the large double doors. He pulled the rightmost one open and allowed Grace to enter first. As she passed through, a shiver climbed up her spine. The last time she had visited Malfoy Manor had not been a good one. The dim light of a few scattered candelabras flickered over her as she went deeper into the house. Regulus stuck close behind her, his shadow swallowing hers. She could hear the footsteps of the others, too—Rosier, Snyde, and the rest—clacking against the stone floor as they moved steadily forward. Fretting by one of the open parlors was Narcissa Malfoy. She was dressed in a set of neat, silver-lined robes. Her pale hair was tied into an intricate chignon. She stilled as she caught sight of the young Death Eaters, sharp eyes darting to Regulus.

“They’re in the drawing room,” Narcissa said.

Regulus nodded and took the lead, walking further and further into the house, showing the way to the others. Grace clung to his side, trying to battle down the panic rising from the pit of her stomach, trying to tamper down the goosebumps that rose across her arms. Every part of her was screaming _run_, but she kept moving forward. As they neared the drawing room, Grace saw others coming in and out, men and women of all ages, some old with greying hair, others young with vicious sneers. She recognized a few of them: Nott, the Carrows, the Lestranges. They were filing in, chatting amongst themselves, taking their seats at the long, oblong table in the center of the room.

Grace followed after them, skirting around the edge of the table and taking a seat next to Regulus. She lifted her eyes surreptitiously, just to take a quick sweep of the room. There were far more people here than she expected. This wasn’t some small operation You-Know-Who was running. It was humongous. There were dozens of people he had persuaded to join his ranks, and Grace was fairly certain that the majority of them were high-ranking Ministry officials and wealthy pure-bloods. Her stomach twisted at the sight of them, at the grins plastered to their faces, at the rough laughter that tore from their mouths. They seemed perfectly normal, and yet, here they all were, at the beck and call of a man intent on murdering thousands of innocent people. Grace wondered how they could reconcile those harsh edges, those polar ends. How could they sit here and laugh one minute, and then go out and kill the next? How could they go to work and smile and nod their way through the day and then come here and spit and curse at the rot that had overtaken their world?

Her gaze traveled to the far end of the table. Seated somewhere in the shadows was You-Know-Who. Grace only caught a flash of pale white skin before she hastily looked away, eyes boring into the dark stone of the table. That awful memory of the Cruciatus burned its way into her mind. Phantom aches flashed over her. Underneath the table, her hand found its way to Regulus’s.

“There are many more amongst our fold,” You-Know-Who intoned deeply. At once, the chatter in the room came to a halt. Every face turned towards the pale, still man at the head of the table. “I am pleased. Those of you who have recruited have done well.”

Relief broke across a few Death Eaters’ faces. One man with a greying goatee exhaled deeply, shoulders dipping down. Others smiled wanly, drinking up the praise.

“But there remain some who have not fulfilled their duties.”

Death Eaters who had begun to relax snapped back to attention. The fragile solace that spread through the room shattered in an instant. You-Know-Who did not say anything for a long moment, letting the people in the room sit and steep in this torrid silence. There was a threat lurking in this quiet, one everyone in the room was acutely aware of. Grace found herself growing steadily more nervous as the seconds ticked on.

“Dolohov,” You-Know-Who called. The name slid from his mouth coolly and quietly, but in the still and trembling room, it seemed loud and heavy. “Crouch remains an impediment to our endeavors. Why has he not been taken care of yet?”

“My apologies, my Lord.” A wizard at the far end of the table bowed his head slightly. His face was thin and long, with a scraggly beard overtaking his chin. “As the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, he is constantly surrounded by Aurors. I haven’t managed to—”

“Details of your incompetency do not interest me, Dolohov. You were given explicit instructions to rid us of Crouch before he took Mulciber to trial.”

“My deepest apologies,” Dolohov repeated. “Unfortunately, Crouch’s security is ironclad, both at the Ministry and at his private residence.”

“If I may interrupt,” another wizard interceded smoothly. He was seated opposite Bellatrix Lestrange and the second-closest to You-Know-Who. Grace couldn’t see much of him, except for a ruddy hand with many rings splayed across the table. “I believe I have a solution to this problem.”

“Speak, Rabastan,” You-Know-Who commanded.

“There is talk Crouch does not harbor a good relationship with his son. If we were to turn the boy to our side and persuade him to join our ranks, perhaps he could take care of his father for us.”

Murmurs of agreement floated through the table. You-Know-Who nodded. “The boy is in Hogwarts?”

“Yes, my Lord.”

“What year?”

Rabastan faltered. He didn’t seem to know the answer to this question. Grace frowned, trying to recall if there was a Crouch at Hogwarts. If there was, he certainly wasn’t in her year.

“Sixth.” It was Snyde who spoke, voice uncharacteristically subdued. “He’s in sixth year, my Lord. Ravenclaw.”

“I see.” You-Know-Who’s eyes flashed over Snyde. “You are responsible for recruiting the young boy. Rabastan will oversee this. Is this understood?”

“Yes, my Lord,” both Rabastan and Snyde said.

You-Know-Who’s eyes passed over the Death Eaters before settling on a pair of wizards. “Macnair and Rowle—you, too, have not fulfilled the tasks given to you. We still do not have Greyback’s cooperation.”

“My lord,” one of the two began calmly, “Greyback cannot be reasoned with. He’s a savage. We attempted to convince him to your side, but he refused to listen. We could not stay for very long in his territory to continue to pursue the matter. He threatened to set his—” his tone morphed into one of disgust, “—_kind_ on us.”

Grace swallowed thickly. She knew that name. _Greyback_. It was the name of the werewolf who had bitten Remus when he was just a child. What in Merlin’s name did You-Know-Who want with such a ruthless and unfeeling man?

“Are you truly so incapable?” You-Know-Who hissed. “Must I see to Greyback myself?”

“We would be honored if you accompanied us,” the same wizard said. “But I am afraid it may be futile. There doesn’t seem to be a way to make Greyback listen to us, let alone convince him to join us.”

“No?” You-Know-Who said. He sounded greatly displeased. The air of the room was fraught with tension. Only Bellatrix, on You-Know-Who’s right, did not seem particularly perturbed. In fact, she seemed to delight in the alarm that swept the room. “You do not know of a way to convince Greyback, Rowle?”

“No, my Lord.”

“What about you, Macnair?”

“No, my Lord,” the wizard beside Rowle said. His voice was gruff.

“Does anyone know of a way?” You-Know-Who’s question was met with silence. His crimson eyes dragged along the room slowly. “No one knows. This is a room of the brightest and purest wizards of the age, and not one of you knows how to trick a filthy, low-born wolf.”

“My Lord…”

You-Know-Who’s heavy, stifling gaze snapped to his left. “Yes, Rabastan?”

“You mentioned in passing the procurement of a Seer for our cause. Perhaps…”

Horror curled around Grace’s body, snared itself across her chest and squeezed tight. You-Know-Who’s terrible gaze lifted from Rabastan and settled on Grace. She felt trapped under the harsh red of his eyes. Her hand wound tighter around Regulus’s. She had known this would be a possibility. She knew she might be asked to See today. But she had hoped it wouldn’t come to pass. She had thought, desperately, wildly, that You-Know-Who wouldn’t bother with her when he thought so low of her.

“Yes,” You-Know-Who murmured, “we do have a Seer in our midst. What do you say, Potter? Can you divine the method to convince Greyback to join us?”

Though he phrased it as such, Grace knew this was not a question. She could not refuse him. All eyes were on her now. Some studied her with indignation, others confusion. For the most part, the other Death Eaters seemed greatly curious.

“Yes.” Grace forced the word out. It sounded cracked, like brittle grass. It was not like her to sound so weak. “I can. I have—” she swallowed thickly, “—my tarot cards.”

You-Know-Who blinked.

Bellatrix lurched forward, distaste curling along her lips. “You _dare_ suggest such an inept—”

You-Know-Who raised a hand, silencing her. His gaze didn’t lift from Grace’s. “Consults your cards.”

She released her hold on Regulus’s hand. Her fingers felt stiff and inflexible. She reached into her pocket and pulled out her deck of tarot cards. They were the same cards her father had bought her so long ago. (He was the first she tried them out on, too. Back at St. Mungo’s, on the linen of her hospital cot, she spread those cards and asked her father to choose three. What would he say now, she wondered dimly, if she told him a murderer was consulting the same cards he once had?) She passed them through her hands in a clumsy, stilted shuffle, before allowing the papery backs to feather and fan out. She glanced up to meet You-Know-Who’s eyes. His face remained neutral. Without a word, he lifted his wand. Three cards pulled out of Grace’s deck by themselves. One by one, they flipped themselves over and landed onto the table, facing Grace.

The first was the Wizard. In a crisp set of red robes, he stood tall and unrelenting over a table of alchemical tools. This card did not surprise Grace in the slightest. It represented sheer willpower and talent. The Wizard, with his skill and determination, would accomplish anything he set his mind to. This was You-Know-Who. This meant to convince Greyback, You-Know-Who must go himself.

The second was the Nine of Cups. At the center of a gleaming mansion, a man sat on a bench, nine golden cups surrounding, gloating and smiling upon his fortune. This small world, this small fortune, was the man’s entire world, his greatest desire. This was Greyback. To sway him to join the Death Eaters, You-Know-Who must give him what he wants.

The last was the Ten of Pentacles. It was this card Grace didn’t understand immediately. There was an old man, a young man, and a child, all in a chain, one succeeding the other. Ten stars hung above them, bright and unyielding. Grey hounds swept along the corners of the card. This was a legacy—but Grace didn’t know what of.

“Well?” You-Know-Who said. “What does it say?”

Grace’s head snapped up to meet his crushing gaze. What would he do with this information? What would he do once he got Greyback? Grace knew it couldn’t be anything good. The war was bad enough with the dark wizards and witches who had aligned themselves with You-Know-Who. But to introduce dark creatures into the mix? To have werewolves attack the defenseless at the behest of You-Know-Who? Grace couldn’t allow it. She wanted to lie to him. She wanted to say it was impossible for You-Know-Who to convince Greyback to join his ranks. She wanted to say it was best he just scrap this plan and move along to another one entirely.

But she was trapped in the crimson of his eyes. The pain of the Cruciatus curse flashed through her mind. It only took one word, one flick, for that terrible pain to crash into her, to bring her down to her knees, to collapse her chest and wreck her voice with scream after scream. She never wanted to feel such pain ever again. She never wanted to feel so weak ever again.

“You must go yourself, and you must give him what he wants.” The words slipped out her mouth before she could stop herself. Shame and guilt fell over her. Her fingers trembled over the faces of the cards. “To have Greyback on your side, you must give him what he wants no matter the cost.”

“No matter the cost,” You-Know-Who repeated, voice quiet, like a hum. “And what is it Greyback desires?”

She looked back to that last card, because she knew the answer was tucked somewhere in it and because she could not bear to have those eyes on her for so long. She studied the length of the card, the grey of the arch the men were huddled under, the gleam of the stars as they burned bright in the sky, the carefree dash of the child as he skirted along a hedge. It was only when she caught sight of the hound sniffing at the boy that she realized. She knew what it was Greyback wanted. It was what Greyback had always wanted. It was why he had bitten Remus and countless others. It was children—more people to turn and rear as werewolves.

Her jaw tightened. She could not reveal this. She could not, because if You-Know-Who agreed to give this to Greyback, if he agreed to turn over the children of his victims, then it was Grace—not You-Know-Who, not Greyback—who had condemned them. With one word, she could ruin the lives of so many. With another, she could save them.

She looked up and met the deep, dark gaze that had watched on listlessly as she was tortured. She looked up, and she unearthed some last shred of strength buried inside her chest. She looked up, and she said, “I don’t know.”

“No?” You-Know-Who leaned back and regarded her carefully. “You said you were trained by Vablatsky herself, and _you don’t know_?”

He threw out each word like a dagger. Grace winced under the onslaught and ducked her head. “You only asked _how_ he can be convinced, not _what_ the convincing factor is.”

Bellatrix hissed from her seat. “The impertinence to speak so _casually_—”

“Enough,” You-Know-Who said, voice sharp and pointed as a needle. “I have no more time to waste on this.”

He gave Grace one last probing look, lips thinned and bloodless, before moving on. Just as he did before, he called out Death Eaters and questioned them relentlessly on their missions. The atmosphere of the drawing room was still charged, still thick with worry and fear, but none of it was directed at Grace anymore. She let out a quiet exhale, slumping against the back of her seat, watching silently as Death Eaters were called and questioned, waiting patiently for the meeting to end. In the course of an hour, she learned more than she thought anyone in the Ministry or even Dumbledore himself might know. She learned that You-Know-Who had a spy, Rookwood, stationed in the Department of Mysteries. She learned that, in addition to Crouch, You-Know-Who was looking to assassinate the Head of the Auror Office and introduce an Imperiused Auror of their own in his place. She learned that he was well aware of Order activities, so much so that he knew there was an ambush planned for the night he wanted to attack the Head Auror. Just as Grace was beginning to think there couldn’t possibly be anymore You-Know-Who was planning to accomplish, his crimson eyes turned and settled back on Grace—but not just her this time. He swept over all the Hogwarts Death Eaters and asked, with growing boredom, in what manner they were instilling unrest and shaking students’ faith in Dumbledore.

When it was clear no one was going to speak immediately, You-Know-Who leaned forward and bit out, “_Well?_”

Rosier snapped forward and swallowed thickly. “Well, my Lord, we’ve been intimidating those of lesser blood but our influence within the castle is limited because of Dumbledore and those on his side. Our Hogsmeade stint did a good job of scaring Mudbloods from returning this term.”

“Yes, and that was quite some time ago,” You-Know-Who said.

“R—right,” Rosier said. “Well—”

“We’ll be doing another one, my Lord,” Yaxley interrupted, drawing You-Know-Who’s gaze to him. Besides Grace, Regulus stiffened and stared at Yaxley. “Many of the students have been feeling cooped up in the castle. It’s been easy for them to sneak out. We can draw many of them out to Hogsmeade on a prearranged date and organize another scare.”

You-Know-Who hummed thoughtfully. “This is an acceptable idea. If you’re able to kill a student, I am certain the Ministry will shut down the school and Dumbledore will lose some influence.” His crimson eyes surveyed the group of Hogwarts students. “You will carry this out a week from now. Do you understand?”

A chill slipped down Grace’s back. She could not see much of the other Hogwarts Death Eaters, but nothing in their manner or movement suggested they were particularly surprised by this order.

“Yes, my Lord,” they all murmured together.

And the agenda moved swiftly on, as if You-Know-Who had only asked them to pick some flowers instead of murder a fellow student in cold blood. Grace refused to be caught in the current of You-Know-Who’s malevolence. She remained stuck in that moment. _Kill a student_. She knew, immediately, instantly, that it was time to go to James. She had found out a great many things, and it was time to put aside their argument, time to forget the past, time to push past all the petty thoughts that kept her awake at night, and tell James everything. Because if anyone could fix this, if anyone could save the people You-Know-Who meant to kill, it was James.

The meeting concluded a short while later. Death Eaters rose from their seats. Some stalled around the room, clustered in conversation. Others headed out speedily, ushering quick thanks and revered goodbyes to You-Know-Who. As Regulus and the rest of the Hogwarts Death Eaters stood, so did Grace. She rose and pressed her palms, slick with sweat, against the front of her robes, trying to tamp down her unease.

“Okay?” Regulus asked her quietly as they made their way to the door.

“Yeah,” she whispered.

Rosier and the others ducked out the entrance. Just as Regulus made to follow suit, he was stopped by Bellatrix, who had pulled him roughly aside before he could leave. Grace dashed towards him, as if pulled along to Regulus by some invisible, taut thread. Her hand flew up to meet his elbow, quick as a flash. She wanted to tug him back to her, but she stopped in the middle of the motion, wary of upsetting Bellatrix.

“The Dark Lord wishes to meet with you,” Bellatrix informed Regulus. Her eyes were lit. “Immediately.”

Regulus tensed. “Oh.” He looked to his side, where Grace remained, her features drenched with suspicion and stress. “You can head off with the others—”

Strangely, it was Bellatrix who opposed this. “No need,” she interrupted and turned to look at Grace. “You can wait in the parlor. It shouldn’t be long.”

And then Bellatrix’s lips spread into a wide, unnerving smile. It was the smile of someone who knew something no one else did. It was an unfeeling smile, sharp and cruel, entirely disingenuous. It was a smile meant to alarm—and Grace was very much alarmed. This world was still unfamiliar to her. She did not know why You-Know-Who wanted to see Regulus. She did not know why Bellatrix was smiling so sharply her way. She did not know why any of the people here did what they did. She only knew herself. She only knew she would not leave, not if Regulus was here. Even if it meant she was falling into a trap of some sort, she would not go.

“All right,” Grace agreed, staring down the hard black of Bellatrix’s eyes, trying to understand what was coming next. But the older witch’s eyes were as dark and inscrutable as an abyss. “Where’s the parlor?”

* * *

The Malfoy’s parlor was extremely luxurious, with richly patterned couches and glass tables. A silver chandelier stuck with candles hung from the ceiling, and an array of silver and gold baubles decorated the far corners of the room, looming overhead. Along one wall was a gilded fireplace; the flames within were dying, soft and subdued, casting little light in the dim room.

Grace rotated around the walls of the room. Although it seemed very nice, it wasn’t the slightest bit comfortable. The couches and chaises were stiff and too silky to lounge on without sliding off. The tables and trinkets that dotted the room seemed so frail and fragile that Grace didn’t dare near them in case she broke something. She kept to herself and to the side, afraid to bring attention to herself, and too consumed in her worry for Regulus to really sit down and relax. She tried to assure herself that he couldn’t possibly be in trouble. He’d done absolutely nothing, after all, _and_ his cousin was a favorite of You-Know-Who’s. Despite this, dread flared in her stomach, all-consuming and inescapable. Bellatrix’s leering, not-a-smile smile flashed in her head. Grace continued to pace anxiously, passing underneath a wall of portraits.

“I knew this would happen,” one of the portraits snapped. Its occupant was pale-haired, with sharp, sleek features and a nasty scowl. He watched Grace with narrowed eyes. “Lucius has opened his doors, and now we have all sorts of miscreants traipsing around.”

“Now, now, Septimus,” another ancestor called from the next portrait over. He was far more portly, and his hair was hidden under a powder-white wig. “You know this is all for the greater good.”

“But does it have to be _my_ home?” Septimus sighed.

“_Your_ home?” a portrait on the far side of the wall huffed. “When I am ze one who procured eet in ze first place?”

Several portraits groaned. Grace shied away from the wall of ancestors, drawing closer to the fireplace, trying to drown out the pointless bickering. The fire flickered down, the dying embers glowing a hot red. Grace reached a hand into her pocket, intending to pull out her wand and re-light the hearth.

Just as her fingers grasped the handle of her wand, she felt a hand touch her shoulder. “What the _hell_ are you doing—?” the man behind her began.

Grace wrenched herself away and whipped her wand out, pointing it steadily at the Death Eater who approached her. “What the hell are _you_ doing?”

As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she faltered, because she knew this man. It wasn’t any of the usual Death Eaters she was acquainted with, Rosier or Snyde or the others at Hogwarts. This man was much older, with a wan, thin face and dark, perfectly coiffed hair.

“What the—put that bloody thing away. It’s just me.”

“_Avery?”_ Grace gaped. “_Castor_ Avery?”

He stared at her, unimpressed. “No. I’m his twin brother.”

Grace opened and closed her mouth several times before finally, weakly, letting out, “Castor…has a twin…?”

“Merlin’s beard! Were you always this thick?”

She stared at him, unsure of what to say. Her mind was reeling. She hadn’t seen Avery during the meeting, although her focus hadn’t quite been on the other Death Eaters then. A million and one questions burned at the tip of her tongue. _This_, she wanted to ask, voice shrill and demanding, _this is where you’ve been all this time?_ She recalled the last time she saw Avery, at the end of her first year, helping Vablatsky decipher his future. _Don’t give up_, the old witch had warned. Grace had hoped he hadn’t—but here he was.

Her lips opened without her telling them to. “What are you doing here?” she found herself asking. It was a useless question. They both knew what he was doing here.

He stared back at her with disbelief. “What am _I_ doing here? What in Merlin’s name are _you_ doing here?”

She blinked in surprise. “I’m here to, you know, follow and—er—aid the Dark Lord in his quest to bring order to the wizarding world.”

He continued to stare at her as if she’d grown a second head over the course of their conversation. After a moment, he sighed heavily and pinched the bridge of his nose with his fingers. His eyes flickered to a close.

“Are you…okay?” Grace asked hesitantly.

“Just give me a moment,” he said.

“Er…alright…”

The chattering portraits had fallen silent. When Grace glanced back at the wall, she saw the many Malfoy ancestors watching the unfolding conversation with heavy interest. Avery caught sight of them as well, and took Grace further aside, towards a dark corner partially eclipsed by the hulking mantle of the fireplace. He dug his wand out of his pocket, a handsome sliver of redwood, and raised it.

Grace reflexively raised her own wand again.

“It’s just a Muffling Charm,” Avery said with heavy exasperation. He pointed his wand towards the portraits and then towards the doorway of the parlor before pocketing it. “Now, where were we? Oh, right—what are you _actually_ doing here?”

She eyed him warily. “I’m here to follow and aid the—”

“Yeah, and I’m here to have a fucking tea party with the Dark Lord,” Avery sniped. “Really—what are you doing? I’m genuinely concerned you’re up to no good and you’re going to get yourself, and others, maimed with whatever cockamamie plan you’ve come up with.”

“What makes you think I’m up to no good?”

Avery gave her a withering glance. “Would you like me to list all your shenanigans? You pelted your brother with Howlers infused with stink pellets, you hung your brother’s underpants in the Hogwarts courtyard, and you broke into Slughorn’s private storeroom _numerous_ times. And that was all in your _first year_. I can only imagine the sort of menace you are now.”

“I haven’t seen you in seven years, and the first thing you do is point out all my flaws? I’ll have you know I did a lot of good things in first year, too.”

“Like what?”

“Like…” She paused thoughtfully.

“You can’t think of anything, can you?”

“You put me on the spot! Merlin—what is this, an interrogation? You know what? How do I know _you’re_ not up to no good? What if _you’re_ the one with a cockamamie plan?”

“What are you _talking_ about?” He stared at her like she’d gone mad. And, honestly, maybe she had. Grace certainly felt like the moment she was living in wasn’t entirely real. “Look, Potter—I don’t know if you’re reckless or dumb or some combination of the two, but this isn’t some Gobstones club you can just waltz into without a second thought. I don’t know _why_ you’re here, but I know it certainly can’t bode well. Right now, my primary concern is my own well-being, so, again, what in Merlin’s name are you doing here?”

His face was pinched into something tight and serious. Grace searched his eyes frantically. While she hadn’t _seen_ Avery in seven years, she had certainly written him. There had been mountains and mountains of letters between the two in her second and third year, and then, suddenly, none ever again. The correspondence had stopped sometime during the summer, when Avery left her last letter—and the many follow-ups she sent—unanswered, having seemingly dropped off the face of the planet. _Where are you?_ she had written. _What happened? Why won’t you write back?_ At the time, she reasoned he was _extremely_ busy. Now, she knew it was because of the war, but not because he had gone into hiding or because he was busy fighting for the right side. It was because he had joined You-Know-Who.

The reality of the situation hit Grace like an avalanche. She stared up at the man in front of him. It was the same Castor Avery she knew from first year, except reedier, with sallow cheeks and a few grey strands tucked into the shining copper of his curled hair. It was the same Castor Avery, but he was hunched forward, bent into himself, glancing behind himself now and again. It was the same Castor Avery, but it was not. She could not trust him. She did not know him anymore. Even worse, she wondered if she had ever known him.

“I—I’m here to protect Regulus,” she let out eventually.

His brows furrowed. “To protect _Black_?”

“He joined during the summer. I was a bit miffed at first…but then I sort of realized that this is kind of a dangerous occupation, you know. And the best chance I’ve got of making sure he’s okay is if I’m here, too.” She held his gaze for a moment and hoped he believed that this was it. That she really was this self-sacrificing. “That’s it. That’s why I’m here.”

“You…” Avery looked up at the ceiling briefly and took a deep breath before returning his gaze to Grace. “You joined a group of dark wizards because your _friend_ joined first?”

“He’s actually sort of my boyfriend now, so—”

“Oh, then that makes everything all right, of course.”

“You’ve gotten a _lot_ snarkier, you know.”

“Yeah? Well, forgive me, I just found out a seventeen-year-old decided to do something extremely dangerous because her _boyfriend_ did it first.”

Grace’s lips pursed. “I’m eighteen.”

“Eighteen and you still don’t have the _sense_ to—”

“Do the other Death Eaters know how much you despise being here?” Grace cut in. Her voice was hard and unflinching.

Avery’s lips clamped shut. For the first time, he seemed unsure of himself. His eyes searched hers hesitantly. “I’m here because I’m good at what I do and because I’m loyal to the cause,” he said very carefully. “I can’t say the same for you.”

“You’re suspicious of me?” she pressed.

“I find it hard to believe someone joined the Dark Lord’s forces simply because their _boyfriend—_”

“Do you think the Dark Lord overlooked my motivation to join his cause?” she challenged. “Do you think he hasn’t already thought the exact same thing you have? Do you think an eighteen-year-old without any _sense_ managed to slip something by _him_ and only _you_ noticed?”

A long silence settled between them. The fireplace was nothing more than ash now. The only light in the room was the sparse white of the moon flickering through the half-drawn curtain and the candlelit chandelier hanging high above them. Grace matched Avery’s gaze with a defiant one of her own, chin up, brows raised, like she was back at Hogwarts with him, like he had caught her sneaking back from Slughorn’s storeroom while on patrol. In the dark of his eyes, she could see him reevaluating everything he thought he knew about her.

“And the story in the _Prophet_? About your brother—”

“You know I never got on with him. You said it yourself. I sent him those Howlers and hung his pants up in the courtyard—and that was only first year.”

“Yeah,” Avery accepted quietly. “But…”

“But?”

He shook his head slightly. “I just never thought I’d see you here. Of all places.”

“And I never thought I’d see _you_ here.” She gave him a suspicious look of her own, voice drenched with skepticism. “In your letters, you always talked about getting away—going to your mum and sister in France. But you’re here. And I suppose you’ve just _been_ here the past few years, and—” the hard trace in her voice vanished, transformed into something softer, subtler, more curious, “—what about Fran—?”

“As much as I’d like to continue this _thrilling_ interrogation, Potter,” Avery interrupted stiffly, “it’s getting late and I ought to be going home. My wife is expecting me for dinner.”

Grace’s brows rose. “I’m sorry, your _what_?”

He didn’t say anything immediately. His face fell, and Grace found a pinprick of guilt ease into her. She did not exactly know why Avery was here, but she was beginning to wonder if his involvement with You-Know-Who wasn’t by choice.

“My wife,” he repeated. His voice was strained. “We got married last spring.”

“Oh—er—congratulations.”

He turned away, not meeting her gaze. “Thank you.”

Avery’s wand lifted as he recanted the spell he’d placed to keep anyone from overhearing them. Grace glanced at the grandfather clock tucked in the corner of the parlor, and frowned as she saw that it had been fifteen minutes since Regulus had been called for a private conversation with You-Know-Who. She looked back at Avery, who was preparing to leave the parlor altogether, and abandoned her plan of questioning him relentlessly until he revealed what had happened to him. It was Regulus she needed to worry about, not Avery.

She strode towards Avery, catching him before he ducked out of the parlor. “Before you go—do you happen to know where Regulus might have gone?”

He barely glanced at her as he stepped out of the doorway, entering the long hallway. “What do you mean?”

“I mean—Regulus was asked to meet with the Dark Lord. Except it’s been a while. Do you know where—?”

They both stilled in the hallway as a faint scream pierced through the otherwise quiet area. Grace might have ignored the noise, except she knew precisely whose voice that was. No matter how muted, how distorted, she would always know that voice.

Without another word, she turned her back on Avery and rushed down to the end of the hallway. The further along she went, the more she recognized it. It was the same corridor Bellatrix had led her down doing her initiation. At the very end, there was a small alcove with a door hidden in the side. This was where she had met You-Know-Who for the first time. This was where she had been questioned relentlessly, where she had received her Dark Mark, and where Regulus was currently being tortured. Behind the heavy wooden door, she could hear scream after scream twisting and tearing from his mouth, awful and spine-tingling, gut-wrenching enough that Grace felt nauseous, so shrill and desperate it sounded more animal than man. Her hands, trembling and shaking, reached for the knob of the door. Running on instinct and fear and utter disbelief, she wrapped her hands around the doorknob and pulled.

It was locked, but she kept trying, tugging against it, letting the silver knob rattle against the door. She took her wand out and tried again, but it didn’t work, either. She curled her hands into fists and prepared to beat down the door, ready to pound against the door with both her hands and her heart. She would do anything to get him out of that room. But before her hands could make contact with the wood, she was pulled back, further and further away, until the door was eclipsed by the sharp dip of the hallway.

“What are you doing?” Avery said. “You can’t just barge in—”

Her heart beat against her chest like a jackhammer. “I need to—I don’t understand—he didn’t—” Her voice stuttered and shattered. _He didn’t do anything to deserve this. He shouldn’t be in there. He can’t be in there._

“Black hasn’t done anything noteworthy or reputable. If the Dark Lord wanted to talk to him, it can only be because he is displeased with Black—or you.”

Her frantic eyes snapped to meet Avery’s solemn ones. “Me?”

“I don’t think he was very impressed by your tarot charade,” Avery said quietly.

“So?” Grace demanded. “What does that have to do with Regulus? What does that matter when it comes to him? It was _my_ mistake. I should be in there, not—”

“This is what I meant when I said you didn’t know what you were walking into. You can’t be so cavalier about your relationships here. If you’ve got a good thing, you’re meant to hide it. If you don’t, the people here will take it and break it. If you’ve got a weakness, they’ll use it. You should have never let the Dark Lord know you care for Black. It…it hurts more knowing the person you love is being punished for the mistake you made,” he finished bitterly, sounding very much like he was speaking from experience.

He might as well have been talking to a wall. She didn’t care to hear the explanation. Her heart was sharpened to a point and digging painfully into her chest. She shrugged Avery off forcefully and tried to make her way back to the door, wand tight in hand, her knuckles taut with the force of her grip. She hadn’t realized Regulus could pay the price for her mistakes. She hadn’t realized it wasn’t just her playing this game. She hadn’t realized that everything—every single thing—she said or did could affect someone other than herself, whether that was Regulus right next to her or the countless children Greyback wanted. Every bone in her body thrummed and ached under the weight of this colossal realization, this terrible world that she had misread, that she had thought would be so easy for her to slip and meld into. Avery was right. This was _dangerous_. She thought she had been ready. (She was _Grace Potter_. She had always been ready. She had been ready her whole life. She had been ready to retaliate against James every time he pranked her. She had been ready for Hogwarts the second she heard of it. She had been ready to be cured of her condition before it became chronic. She had been ready to steal from Slughorn’s storeroom when she needed to. She had been ready to duel anyone who crossed her. She had been ready. Always, always ready.) But not now. She felt grossly underprepared and frightened. Each of Regulus’s screams bit into her, hooked itself deep into her skin. (She could feel the burn of the Cruciatus again. She had not been ready then, either.) She wanted to help Regulus. She wanted to save him. But she could hardly save herself.

Avery stopped her before she could charge forward again. “What are you _doing_?” he whispered fiercely, drawing her back. “Do you have a death wish?”

His hands rested on her shoulders, firm and sure. She looked up at him, eyes burning, equal parts aghast and angry. She was seized by the desire to kick him, to shove him, to have him _let her go_. Didn’t he understand? Didn’t he hear? That wasn’t just anyone in there. That was _Regulus_.

She struggled against him. “That—”

“He’ll survive.”

“How do you know?” She meant for the words to be hurled at him, like a whip striking skin, but it came out choked and hushed. She wanted proof. She wanted a promise. She wanted to be _let go_. “How do you know?”

“I know.”

And she saw it in the hard, rigid planes of his face, in the dreary circles under his eyes, in the dull, leaden way his words fell from his mouth, in the way he’d spat out _wife_ and refused to entertain her questions, in the way he’d pulled her aside and demanded to know what she was doing here—in Avery’s tired face, she saw that you could not die in this place so long as you pretended you belonged, but you could suffer. You sure could suffer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Castor Avery is BACK! (For those who didn't read 'Flying,' he was a Slytherin Prefect that Grace befriended.) I’ve been waiting *so long* to bring him back into the story. Shit’s been crazy for him since he graduated Hogwarts, and we’ll eventually get into exactly what’s been going on with him.
> 
> As always, thank you for the kudos and comments! Please keep letting me know your thoughts :)


	14. Spoiled

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grace tries a two-way mirror, an owl, the Floo. Finally, she just knocks on the door.

They returned late in the night.

Regulus had been unceremoniously tossed to Grace after his so-called meeting with You-Know-Who came to a close. He was shaken, pale and tense, but not so bad off that he couldn’t keep on his feet. Still, Grace took him in hand and Apparated back to Hogsmeade. She collected their broomsticks and led him to a passageway just a block over from Honeyduke’s, uncovering a tunnel with only the sparse light of the moon to guide her.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” she asked as they came out by the statue of Gregory the Smarmy. “We can stop by the Hospital Wing. Madam Pomfrey won’t ask questions—”

He shook his head. “No,” he croaked out. “She’ll know.”

He wasn’t wrong. Any decent Healer would recognize the lingering aches and trembles for what they were: after-effects of the Cruciatus.

“All right, do you want to head to the Room, then?”

He gave a jerky nod.

The two broomsticks were clamped between her left arm and her side. Her other arm was wound around Regulus’s torso, steadily helping him climb up to the seventh floor. As soon as they made it to the blank wall opposite the tapestry, Regulus stepped aside to lean against a pillar. Grace crossed the wall three times, wishing with a sort of deranged panic for a room that Regulus could properly rest in.

A sleek door appeared. She pulled on the knob and saw a well-furnished, comfortable room. There was an enormous fireplace situated near the far back, flames fanning out from the hearth, coating the whole of the room in brilliant reds and yellows. A large and plush bed was pushed to the side, with a bedside table that held books and magazines to pass the time. There was even a small basin of water and a washcloth to freshen up.

“Here you go,” Grace said, helping Regulus to the bed. “Do you still feel awful?”

He collapsed on the covers, spreading his arms and legs wide. His eyes fluttered shut. “It’s not so bad. I don’t feel like vomiting anymore.”

Grace settled on the edge of the bed uneasily. “What about the aching? Is that still bad?”

“It’s sort of like…Renard put me through fifty laps—”

She didn’t believe him in the slightest. “_Regulus_—”

“All right, fine,” he deflated. “It’s more like Renard flung my body into the air and let it crash into the ground fifty times.”

“Merlin, Reg—”

“I don’t understand why it feels this terrible.”

“What do you mean you don’t understand? It’s the _Cruciatus_, of course it feels terrible.”

“You got it three times, and you made it back to the summer home by yourself,” Regulus pointed out. “It was only once he did it, and I thought I was having my soul ripped out of my body until he stopped the spell—and even after he stopped it, I _still_ felt like I was dying.”

“I don’t know,” Grace said. “I suppose I have a high pain tolerance. I’ve been having seizures my whole life and—oh, wait—I took one of my draughts. That really helped. Do you think the Room can give us one?”

She looked about the Room expectantly, as though a flask of Draught of Peace would come flying through the ceiling any moment now.

It didn’t.

“Well—I’ve got some in my room,” Grace said, already easing off the end of the bed. “I’ll run over and get it.”

“No, wait, don’t go…”

“I’ll be right back.”

“It doesn’t hurt as much when I’m talking to you.”

“That’s because you’re distracted. Here, read this—” she reached over him and took one of the magazines from the table, an old edition of _Witch Weekly_, “—and I’ll get the potion and come back. You’ll feel much better once you have it, I promise.”

Regulus took the magazine gingerly. His lips dipped into a frown as he caught sight of the headline. “‘All-Exclusive Sit-Down with Celestina Warbeck: The Spectacular Singer Tells All’—Grace, reading this would be more torturous than the Cruciatus.”

“Don’t joke about that,” she scolded. She detangled her invisibility cloak from the two broomsticks and slid it on. “I’ll be back by the time you finish that article.”

“It’ll take me an eternity to drag my eyes through this.”

“Then I’ve got plenty of time,” she said, slipping out the door.

She tightened the cloak around her as she sped down the stairs, hoping Mrs. Norris wasn’t roaming about. James had always complained about the dratted cat’s ability to sense a student nearby, even if said student was completely invisible.

Luckily, there was no cat in sight. Grace made it to the Slytherin common room in record time, wheezing from her mad dash. She shrugged off the cloak as she climbed the winding steps that led to the seventh-year girl’s dormitory. She slowed her gait as she stepped into the room, careful not to make any noise that might awaken the others, and tiptoed to her trunk.

She swung open the lid and began to pull out all manner of items: spare robes, a deluxe pack of stink pellets, some crushed up pumpkin pasties. Shoved between two stacks of books—one school-related, the other accumulated from the library during her research about Divination—were her extra flasks of Draught of Peace. Grace quickly plucked one and set it on the end of her bed. She shut her trunk, but as she made to lock it, her hand wavered on the clasp. After a moment of hesitation, she lifted the lid again and dug in deep, shifting aside old books and letters, before finally finding what she was looking for. Buried at the very bottom of the trunk was a gilded two-way mirror. She would need it if they were going to contact James tonight.

She set the old thing beside the draught and closed the chest once more, clasping the lock shut and rising. Just as she grabbed the mirror and flask from her bed, one of the other bed’s hangings ripped open. Grace froze over her trunk and turned her head to her left, where she saw Myrcella Rosier’s head poking out through the curtains.

The two stared at one another for a moment.

“Did Magnus get back okay?” Myrcella asked at last.

Grace had last seen Rosier leaving through one of the many hallways of Malfoy Manor. Considering all the other broomsticks had been gone at Hogsmeade, she simply assumed he’d made it back to the castle—but she wasn’t going to waste time just to check.

“Er—yeah…?”

Myrcella gave a stiff nod and disappeared back into her bed. Grace stared for a moment longer, wondering how much Rosier had told his sister about Death Eater activity, before shaking away the thought and closing her trunk. Potion and mirror tight in hand, she slipped on the invisibility cloak and scurried back to the Come-and-Go Room.

“Thank Merlin,” Regulus breathed as soon as he saw her come through the door. He tossed the magazine aside. “Warbeck’s first husband is an absolute wanker.”

“Really?” Grace said. She uncorked the draught and handed it over to him before lying down beside him. “What’d he do?”

“Got with her just to advance his own career,” he said between gulps. “Tried to stop her from singing so he could become more well-known. It was a mess.”

“Rough.”

“Yeah.” He handed back the empty flask. “Although it does add some dimension to a few of her songs. I might have a newfound appreciation for her music, to be honest.”

As he talked, Grace saw the potion take effect. The tension in his body fell away, and Regulus let himself fully relax into the soft mattress. He let out a breath—and with it went all the pain and turmoil of the past hour. His eyes flickered shut as he simply drank in the moment. A warmth slid over Grace. Tenderly, she raised a hand and brushed it through his hair.

“Better?”

“Yeah,” he breathed. “Loads.”

They stayed like that for a moment, Regulus taking deep breaths, Grace stroking his hair. But as the minutes ticked by and Regulus recovered, Grace found an awful guilt sinking into her heart. She had pushed it down earlier in the night, when her priority had been to get Regulus to Hogwarts and make him feel better. But now that Regulus was, for the most part, fine, she was confronted by the full force of that guilt.

“I’m sorry.”

His eyes fluttered open. “It’s not your fault.”

“It _is_. He did that because he was upset with my performance, right? Because you’re the one who convinced him I’d be helpful?”

A shadow fell over his face. “Well, yes…”

“Right. So, it’s my fault—”

He caught her hand as it passed over his forehead again and brought it down, holding it against his cheek. “It’s not your fault.”

She wriggled her hand away and folded it tightly into her other one. “It is. I should have told him. I know what Greyback wants. He wants children—but—but I couldn’t just tell _him_ that. I couldn’t just…”

“Children?” Regulus repeated.

“Yeah,” Grace said numbly. “It took me a while to figure it out from the cards, but when I did, that’s what it was… But I didn’t tell him. I thought it was the right thing to do.”

“I wouldn’t have, either,” Regulus said after he’d digested the information. “He’s mental enough that he might’ve had each of us find a child to give Greyback as a tribute.”

“I thought the same.”

He softened. “It’s fine, Grace. You made the choice you had to under the—”

“It should have been me,” she said miserably. “I was the one who made the mistake.”

“No.” He shook his head. “I’m glad it was me and not you—”

“Reg—”

“When you came back after you were initiated, you looked half-dead, Grace. My heart stopped.” He was working through some enormous emotion. His voice was wet. “And you said it was the Cruciatus—_three rounds_ of the Cruciatus—like it was _nothing_. But it wasn’t. It was _everything_. It was… Merlin, Grace, you’ll burn yourself up to get what you want. I’m glad it was me and not you.”

They stayed silent for a moment. The hearth hissed and crackled.

“At least it’s over now,” Grace said at last.

“Yeah.” Regulus’s eyes flickered over the canopy. “We won’t have to go back for a while. He doesn’t really need us while we’re at Hogwarts. The last meeting we went to—Yaxley, Rosier, and I—was in September. That’s when we were told to stir up trouble in Hogsmeade, and now—” his tone turned displeased, “—we’ve got to do it again.”

Grace winced. “Yeah…”

“Can’t believe Yaxley couldn’t just keep his mouth shut—or at least have _asked_ us beforehand. How’re we supposed to do something like that again? After the last stunt we pulled, the Ministry stationed an Auror there. Salazar… I despise him.”

“You hide it well.”

It was strange, saying that now. There had been a time when Regulus couldn’t hide anything at all. But times change, and with it, people.

Regulus exhaled slowly. “You learn to hide a lot of things growing up at Grimmauld Place.”

Grace nodded absently. “Well—that’s one thing we’ve got to tell James. Hogsmeade is going to be targeted again. And You-Know-Who’s looking to kill a student.”

“I don’t really know how we can get out of that one,” Regulus admitted. “The most your brother could do to help is station a few more Aurors to stop the trouble before it begins—but if that were to happen coincidentally the day we were planning to attack, You-Know-Who would be suspicious.”

“That’s true…”

“Honestly, I think the bigger issue is the assassination plot he’s got planned.”

“The Head Auror?”

“Yeah.”

“But they already know. James’s side already knows. One of the Death Eaters mentioned the Order was planning to ambush them on the night they chose.”

“Yeah, so they should know that we know that—”

“How _do_ we know that?” she wondered.

“I’ve no idea,” Regulus said warily. “Lestrange just _knows_, and You-Know-Who doesn’t question him on it. I reckon he’s got an informant or something.”

“Someone _in_ the Order?” Grace said, alarmed. “Merlin, we’d better tell James that, too.”

She shifted on the bed, sitting cross-legged beside Regulus, and reached for the mirror at the footboard. She positioned it carefully in front of her.

“What? Right now?” Regulus said. He hefted himself up, resting his back against the headboard, and began to comb through his hair with his fingers.

“Yeah,” Grace said. She eyed him as he fixed up his hair. “You… You know you won’t be talking to him, too, right?”

His hand dropped. “Yeah. I suppose that makes sense.”

“It’s best to ease him in,” Grace resolved, shifting the mirror so Regulus was out of view. “I’ll apologize, tell him what I’ve been up to, and when he seems good and calm, I’ll introduce you. Sounds good?”

Regulus nodded. “All right.”

“Okay… Well, here goes, I guess.” Her heart was hammering against her chest, but she ignored the feeling. She lifted the mirror a bit higher. “Er—hello, James? Are you there?”

No response. The only face there was her own: wan and tired, dark bags circling her eyes.

“James?” she tried again. “It’s me, Grace. I just need to talk to you for a bit, if that’s okay.”

Still nothing. A pinprick of panic eased its way into her heart.

“Maybe give it a few seconds?” Regulus said.

“Yeah, sure. He might be trying to find it…”

She set the mirror on her lap and wrung her hands together, fingers interlocking together. She tried not to think about the mirror, but it was sort of impossible. Barely fifteen seconds later, she picked the mirror up again, impatient for a response, and caught onto a pair of brilliant hazel eyes. Her shoulders eased—and then tensed when she realized they were her own eyes.

“James…?” she repeated uselessly.

“He’s probably sleeping,” Regulus said after a moment.

Relief washed over her. “Yeah—yeah, you’re right. It’s pretty late, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, it’s—” he lifted his wrist and glanced at his golden watch, “—nearly one.”

“Oh, yeah, he’s definitely asleep. Probably came back from work knackered and went right to sleep.” Her finger traced the gilded frame of the mirror. “I’ll try in the morning. First thing.”

“All right,” Regulus agreed. “It’s a work day tomorrow, though. You’ll have to get him early, before he heads out.”

“Right…” She eased into the bed, drawing up the covers. “Can you wake me up?”

“What do you mean? Are we staying here?”

“Yeah, I thought so.”

“Oh.” A slight pink dusted over his pale cheeks. “I mean—yeah, we can—”

“Why are you blushing? We shared the pull-out.”

“I’m _not_ blushing—and that was only once, because you were sad.”

“Yeah? And what’s the difference now, exactly? I’m sad my boyfriend’s lying to me about his blushing—”

“I’m _not,_” he protested. “It’s just hot in here.”

She rolled her eyes. “All right, sure—just so you know, if you _were_ actually blushing, I would have said it was sweet.”

A beat passed, and then: “Okay, fine. I _was_ blushing. Just a little.”

“Really? That’s embarrassing.”

“You know what? This one’s on me. I shouldn’t have believed you.”

She laughed and shifted over to him, close enough to press a kiss against his temple, just above the edge of his brow. “I’m joking. It _is_ sweet. _You’re_ sweet.”

A small smile quirked his lips. Grace settled back down, on her side so she could see Regulus’s profile. The hearth dimmed and went out completely, bathing the room in darkness.

“You’re still feeling better, right?” she asked tentatively. “Nothing hurts anymore?”

He rolled over, so they were both facing each other. It took a moment to adjust to the dark, but soon Grace could make out the thick dash of his brow and the fine bridge of his nose.

“I promise you I’m fine,” he said.

“Okay.”

“We should go to sleep.”

“Okay.”

But neither of them closed their eyes. They stared at each for a moment. The events of the day rolled through Grace: the shadows of the meeting hall, the sibilant hiss of You-Know-Who’s voice, the sharp red of his eyes.

“Do you think…”

“Think what?”

“It’s actually possible to beat him?”

She didn’t like the thread of terror that wove through her words, but she couldn’t deny that it was there. She remembered the nascent stirrings of the war, the occasional Death Eater attacks, the Ministry raids. She had always thought it would stop—perhaps not as quickly as she’d like, but eventually. Now, she wasn’t so sure. She had always held the idea that You-Know-Who and his Death Eaters were simply some ragtag, bumbling group of extremists, that the Ministry would prevail in the long run, that it wouldn’t be so hard to infiltrate the group. But the meeting had completely flipped this notion. The Death Eaters were not fools. They were mad, perhaps, but disciplined, too: bright wizards and witches pulled from the Wizengamot and the Ministry. And they were utterly devoted to You-Know-Who.

She was no longer surprised that the Ministry had not been able to get a leg up on the war. How could they have? When You-Know-Who had insight into every move of theirs? When his plans were as clever as they were ruthless?

“I don’t know,” Regulus admitted after a long moment. “At first, I thought they were in over their heads, that soon the Ministry would catch up with them. When that didn’t seem likely anymore, I just figured… Well, You-Know-Who is the lynchpin for this whole operation. If the Aurors could just manage to collect themselves and take him out, then everything would come tumbling down. But then he said something…”

“What?”

“During the summer, the Ministry was sending out Hit Wizards to get rid of You-Know-Who. Of course, they never really managed to get close enough, but a few Death Eaters were worried all the same. You-Know-Who dismissed them. He said they needn’t worry because… Because he can’t die.”

Grace’s brows shot up. “I’m sorry, he said _what_?”

“I know. It sounds mental—but he said it. At first, I thought he was just _saying_ that, you know? To impress his followers. But he says stuff like that an awful lot—that he’s ‘gone further than any wizard ever has,’ that he’s ‘conquered death.’”

“That’s not possible.”

“I know…but he’s said it. I doubt most of the Death Eaters really believe him, save for Bellatrix and a few others. I didn’t believe it either, not in the beginning, but then I started wondering if he’s sort of telling the truth. What if he’s just exaggerating only a little bit? What if he’s got something that’ll keep him alive, even if he’s on the brink of death, just long enough so he can heal himself? What if he’s got something that, if he does die, it’ll just bring him back?”

“That’s not possible,” she said again.

“It doesn’t seem like it is, but I’ve looked into it and there are a few things that could ensure immortality, or something like it. Things like the philosopher’s stone or—”

“No—I mean, it _can’t_ be possible. It _shouldn’t_ be. Because if that’s true, if he can’t die, then…”

“I know,” Regulus said quietly, mournfully. His silver eyes caught onto hers. “It’ll just keep going on, the war.”

And if You-Know-Who had time on his side, if he could just keep going, decades and decades later… Eventually, the Ministry would just give out—maybe even the world, too.

“We’ll lose,” she whispered.

Regulus reached a hand out. “He doesn’t have to die for the war to end,” he reminded her softly. “He could be imprisoned. Kept away from society. Like Grindelwald.”

“Right…”

Somehow, she couldn’t imagine You-Know-Who in a prison cell.

* * *

As it turned out, Regulus didn’t have to wake Grace up early. Wracked with guilt over what had happened to Regulus and worried about James’s reaction to what she’d been up to, she hardly slept during the night. She was already awake by the time Regulus was stirring.

“He hasn’t picked up…?” he asked sleepily, catching sight of her with her knees drawn up, mirror resting on her lap.

Grace’s gaze was steadfastly stuck to the mirror. “No, not yet. But it’s early.”

He stifled a yawn and rolled over to face her, the crook of his elbow caught under his head. “What time is it?”

“Er—not sure.”

There wasn’t a window in the Come-and-Go Room, but a low flame burst from the hearth when Grace first awoke, casting the room in a soft, dull light. Regulus shook out his left hand to glance at his watch. When he caught sight of the time, he bolted out of bed.

“Merlin’s beard! It’s eight—!”

“Really? Then he should be up by now.” Grace peered harder at the mirror. “James—are you really not there? Hello—”

“We’ve got to head back to the common room and get ready—” he whirled around and got a proper look at her, “—wait, where did you get that?”

“Get what?”

“Fresh robes.”

“Oh, they just appeared.” She pointed at a dresser pushed against the wall. “There’s another one for you in there. There’s also a bathroom now.”

“What?” Regulus twisted around and caught sight of a small door right next to the new dresser. It had certainly not been there last night. “When did that happen?”

“I dunno—maybe an hour ago? I was just thinking about how it’d be nice if this place had a loo, and it just happened.”

Regulus stared at the door. “That’s never happened before.”

“We’ve never spent the night in the Room, so maybe it actually happens quite a lot?” Grace murmured absently. Her fingers tapped against the mirror restlessly before stilling. “You know what? I’m beginning to think he’s stashed his mirror somewhere and isn’t checking.”

“Maybe.” Regulus was rummaging through the dresser for fresh robes. “You could always just turn up to Godric’s Hollow and speak to him in person.”

“I was thinking that,” Grace admitted. “But this needs to be a private conversation, and James always has someone over at home—usually Sirius.”

Regulus’s face soured. “Yeah, that might be a problem.”

Grace set down the mirror. “If he doesn’t pick up by the end of today, I’ll send him an owl and tell him to get his stupid mirror. That should work, right?”

“Yeah, I think so,” Regulus said, although most of his attention was now on the bathroom that had appeared overnight. He had opened the door and was now peeking through. “Salazar—it’s got _soap_, too. This is brilliant.”

“Yeah,” Grace agreed, sounding significantly less enthused than he did. Her stomach let out a low growl. Sighing, she set down her mirror. “Do you think the Room might bring us food, too, if we asked?”

“Probably not. Food is one of the exceptions to Gamp’s Law of Elemental Transfiguration, after all.”

She made a small, disgruntled sound in the back of her throat. “Do you think it’s worth it to head all the way down to the kitchens to get breakfast?”

“The Great Hall is closer.”

Her brows ticked up. “Good idea. I’ll swipe some pastries. Is there anything you want?”

“Hmm… Honeydew slices.”

“All right,” she agreed.

Regulus disappeared into the new bathroom. Grace hefted herself off the bed and slipped out the door, tracing her way down to the Great Hall almost absentmindedly. Her thoughts were stuck on James, where he was, what he was up to, why he wasn’t answering her. She had not used the two-way mirror very often, but she knew James and Sirius used their pair frequently. She had always assumed James had his mirror on standby, shrunk and stuffed into one of his bottomless pockets. 

She trudged quietly into the Great Hall, making a beeline for the Slytherin table. She dutifully kept away from Ophelia, who was huddled in her own corner, and intercepted the middle of the table, where she took an entire platter of blueberry pastries from a group of fourth-years. Slowly, she worked her way up towards the other end, where all the seventh and sixth-years sat clustered. She deftly avoided Snyde, who was snickering with Rosier, and scanned the table for some honeydew slices—hell, even cantaloupe might do.

By the time she spotted what she’d been looking for, Myrcella Rosier had caught sight of her.

“Potter,” Myrcella called out, tone surprisingly cordial, “there’s room over here.”

Myrcella nudged Yang aside, allowing space beside her on the bench. Grace stared at the copper-haired girl with something akin to horror. No amount of gold in the world would convince her to sit next to Myrcella.

“I’m just passing by,” Grace said flatly, hoping that might be the end of that.

“No need,” Myrcella said, as though the decision were entirely up to her. She reached a hand out and pulled Grace towards the seat.

Caught off-guard, Grace landed onto the seat abruptly, wincing as she made contact with the wood. The pastries jumped on their platter. Grace turned to give Myrcella a dark glare, but her eyes were trained on her plate.

“Now,” Myrcella said primly, having apparently decided she and Grace were very good friends now, “what is it you’ve been up to these past few—”

“Haven’t your parents ever told you not to speak with strangers?” Grace snarled. She stood back up. “Merlin, like I’d sit and exchange gossip with you after seven years of utter revulsion on your end.”

“And what about the revulsion on your end?”

“You—”

“It’s all right,” Myrcella interrupted grandly. “The past is the past. I’ve always thought we’d be good friends, Potter. It’s just that I wasn’t sure what sort of _views_ you held before. You can’t fault me for not knowing.”

“More like you wouldn’t allow me to fault you.”

Myrcella’s lips twisted into a displeased frown. She turned her nose away. “Fine, Potter. If you really don’t want to stay, then go. I suppose you’re leaving to go attend to whatever it was that was keeping you out of the dormitory the whole night.”

“Why don’t you mind your own business, Rosier?” Grace sneered before reaching over the other girl’s shoulder for a plate of honeydew.

With another glare, Grace turned around and stormed out of the Great Hall. She hurtled through the hallways and up the stairs to have a quiet breakfast with Regulus. And although they did have a quiet breakfast, nothing about it _felt_ quiet in the slightest. Between the murmurs and soft laughs they exchanged, Grace was acutely aware of how loud and relentless the world was. It bothered her that they would have to storm Hogsmeade in less than a week. It bothered her that Myrcella was paying close attention to her. Most of all, it bothered her that James could not be reached.

All through the day, she tried the two-way mirror: between classes, during breaks, in the loo. By the time evening set, he had still not picked up or returned her call. She skipped dinner in favor of heading to the owlery, where she tore a scrap of parchment from her scroll and hurriedly scrawled out a note: _Pick up your mirror._ She signed it ‘Gummy’ (short for ‘Gummy Grace,’ James’s favorite taunt after she got Drooble’s Best Blowing Gum stuck in her hair when she was nine and had to have quite a few locks of her hair trimmed), and attached the letter to a nearby screech owl.

“Get it to him quick,” she asked.

The owl gave a shrill hoot before spreading its wings and leaping out of the parapet. Grace watched it hurtle into the dark sky for a moment before retreating to the Come-and-Go Room. She was supposed to stop by the library to find some reading material that might help in finishing her Transfigurations essay, but she couldn’t stomach the thought of writing line after line about a topic she didn’t care about in the slightest. She wanted to do nothing more than curl up on a couch with her mirror and wait for James to talk to her.

So, that’s what she did.

She waited and waited and waited. She nodded off sometime around midnight, waking occasionally to check the mirror and drifting back to sleep when it was clear James had not called it. The cycle continued all through the night, until morning came and Grace found herself with thirty minutes to spare before breakfast ended.

She grabbed her belongings and fled from the room, harried and worried, speeding down to the Great Hall. Regulus was already seated, throwing furtive glances all around the room, clearly alarmed by Grace’s absence. She made her way over to him (sidestepping Myrcella in the process) and plopped down beside him. She was about to whisper her frustrations about James’s silence when an owl tore through the air and landed right on top of her empty plate. It was the same screech owl she had sent last night, with a scrap of paper attached to its leg. It blinked its large yellow eyes up at her and gave something of a woeful hoot.

Thrill spiked through Grace before suspicion. She snatched the parchment from the owl’s leg and flung it open, thinking—_hoping_—James might have responded with a time he would call later today. But as she rolled open the small scrap, she was met with her own handwriting: _Pick up your mirror._

This was her message. The owl had never made it to James.

Regulus shot her a probing look. Silently, head ringing with confusion, she passed him the note. His eyes sped over the single sentence and then flew up to meet hers. There was a crease between his brows.

“Undetectable Charm,” she explained quietly. Sometime after the funeral James and Lily must have gone into hiding.

“What now?”

All around them, Slytherins chatted and laughed together. Rosier was regaling Snyde with a story about a skirmish that occurred at a family-hosted gala some time ago. Fuentes was showing off the design for a custom-made ballgown her mother had ordered on her behalf. Gamp was boring some fourth-years further down with yet another conspiracy theory. Life, it seemed, went on—but Grace felt stuck. Where was James? What was he doing? How could she get to him? These questions rolled and rumbled through her head. They seemed to be the only thing that existed. She wondered, with a sort of numb horror, if James was hiding from her.

“I don’t know,” she said at last.

* * *

It took them a few days to come to an agreement over what to do next. Plans were waylaid as Yaxley ate up more and more of their time by orchestrating their upcoming appearance at Hogsmeade. Snyde had found out that there were now _two_ Aurors stationed at the village, something that quelled Regulus and Grace’s fear that a student might be hurt. But as soon as they began to relax, Rosier suggested covertly immobilizing the Aurors—an idea which Yaxley quickly decided meant _killing_ the Aurors by taking them by surprise.

“It’s ridiculous,” Regulus said in shock for what might have been the hundredth time. “More than underhanded, more than despicable—it’s _stupid_.”

They were in the Come-and-Go Room, trying to find a way to obstruct Yaxley’s plan.

“Of course it’s stupid. That’s why they think it’s a good idea.”

“Suppose they do actually kill the two Aurors patrolling the area. The residents will call more in, and when it’s clear to them that we’ve murdered two of their own, they will send _so many more_ to Hogsmeade, which will prompt _so many more_ Death Eaters to—”

“I know, Reg,” Grace said wearily. “You already made your case to them.”

Regulus folded his arms against his chest and leaned heavily into the plush armchair he was seated in. “And they _refuse_ to listen—”

“Because they’re idiots. The best thing we can do now is make sure there aren’t any students at Hogsmeade. Have you talked to Bannerjee?”

He soured further. “Oh, Merlin…”

“What? What happened?”

“I made it worse,” he said grumpily. “I managed to get Bannerjee in _just_ the right place, so she overheard Rosier telling some students that there was a big bash at Hogsmeade at the end of the week. She was absolutely appalled, of course. Rosier somehow managed to weasel himself out of any blame.” He rolled his eyes. “Anyway, Bannerjee interrogated some students and found out that Mercer was selling invisibility cloaks. Naturally, she confiscated what he had and told Prefects to inform students that they were, under no means, allowed to sneak out to Hogsmeade for a bit of fun.”

“This all sounds fantastic,” Grace said honestly. “How is that worse? We don’t want there to be any students in Hogsmeade, and she’s told them not to sneak out.”

“When authority tells _you_ not to do something, do you listen?”

“Ah…”

“It turns out, by telling students _not_ to sneak out to Hogsmeade, Bannerjee essentially advertised that students _should_ be sneaking out to Hogsmeade.” His lips curled into a frown. “What’s worse is that Rosier is pretending that was actually a part of his plan for getting caught. Merlin…”

“Well,” Grace began, struggling to find a silver lining, “if Mercer’s products have been confiscated, then they _can’t_ sneak out—”

“Snyde’s other roommate, Henderson, decided to take up Mercer’s mantle and sell invisibility cloaks in his stead.”

“Bollocks.”

“Pretty much.”

Grace let out an exasperated breath. “Why are students so intent on breaking rules? Why can’t they just stay in one place and do as they’re told?”

“You snuck out to Hogsmeade in September.”

‘That was different!”

Regulus raised a brow. “How?”

“Look, we need to focus on the real issue here,” Grace said. “How’re we supposed to ensure students don’t get hurt? More than that, how’re we supposed to make sure those Aurors don’t die at Yaxley or Rosier’s idiot hands?”

“I’ve got an idea.”

“What is it?”

“You could, I dunno, _tell James_—”

“I’ve been trying—”

“Obviously the mirror isn’t working,” Regulus said. His own frustration was beginning to peek through. “I think you ought to go down to Godric’s Hollow—”

“We’ve been over this. I can’t just _show up_. We don’t know what Order members might be there or what wards he might have put up. I know for sure Lily will be there—and she might not let me in.” Grace’s stomach lurched at the memory of the funeral. She’d be lucky if Lily ever talked to her again.

Regulus’s shoulders fell. “I know, I know,” he grumbled quietly. “It’s just—time is a really big factor here—”

“I know that. I’ve been trying, Regulus. But it’s like he’s dropped off the face of the earth—him and everyone he knows! I tried to send an owl to _Remus_ to see if he could tell James to respond to me—but that owl never came back! I don’t know what’s going on!”

“He’s probably gone into hiding, too,” he sighed.

“I don’t know. Maybe.” Grace ran a hand through her hair. “The only thing I can think to do now is call him using the Floo and yell at him to pick up his mirror. Whoever’s there is bound to pass along the message to him.”

“The Floo?” Regulus repeated. “Which Floo?”

“It can’t be the common room’s fireplace, of course. Someone might see me. So, I was thinking I’d use the one in the staffroom.”

“No, you can’t do that,” Regulus argued. “The Floo is being monitored. If you break into the staffroom to use it, professors will investigate and find out who was called using their Floo. If it’s found someone tried to contact James Potter and that spreads, everyone will think it’s you—Yaxley and Rosier included.”

“But if I _do_ manage to contact James using the Floo, he’ll know to tell Dumbledore _not_ to investigate it—”

“That’s only if you manage to tell him in time.”

“It shouldn’t take very long. All we’ve got to do is find a time in the evening when the teacher’s lounge is empty. I’ll go in and contact him. It shouldn’t take more than a minute. If everything goes smoothly, professors won’t even know their Floo was used.”

Regulus digested it for a moment.

“What else can we do?” Grace continued. “Honestly, it’s too risky for me to disappear during the night and head to Godric’s Hollow. Myrcella’s already asking me where I’m off to every time I come to meet you.”

“All right, all right,” Regulus sighed. “We’ll try the Floo.”

They had to wait until the next day to find an opportune moment to sneak into the teacher’s lounge. Shortly before dinner, the staffroom was empty save for Professor Sprout. Regulus lulled her out with some story about a couple of fourth-years breaking into the greenhouse. While Sprout hurried off with Regulus, Grace broke into the room under the cover of her invisibility cloak.

It was quite small, with dark wood tables and mismatched chairs cluttered across the floor. Next to a large wardrobe was a raging hearth. Grace rushed over and grabbed the can of Floo powder that rested above the mantel of the fireplace. She crouched down, felt the warmth of the fire washed over her, and slipped off the cloak. Her heart hammered against her chest. She could not help but think back to those early days, before she had been branded a Death Eater, before she had pulled herself away from James so forcefully, back when her plan was young and invulnerable. She’d been foolhardy then. She always had been. _It’s the Potter way_, her mother sometimes said, _to jump in headfirst_. Now, she could not help but think of what all she could have changed. Revisions swept through her mind. She ached to have trusted James more, trusted his love for her more, enough to have just admitted Regulus’s predicament at the start of all this. Now, after those frosty weeks leading to her parent’s death, after the horrible affair that was the funeral, she didn’t know what sort of love James harbored for her anymore. She could only hope it was enough.

Quietly, she packed her heart deep inside herself and dug her fingers into the cup of powder. With one fluid motion, she sprinkled it across the hearth. The flames promptly turned a deep and dazzling green.

“Potter Cottage, Godric’s Hollow,” she called, leaning far enough forward that the fire tickled the tip of her nose.

As soon as she said it, the flames crackled, the connection disrupted, and the whole thing went out, leaving the hearth as nothing more than a pile of burnt wood and ash. Grace stared at the remnants in horror before relighting the fire, reaching her hand back into the cup, and beginning the process anew.

Again, as soon as the words _Potter Cottage_ left her lips, the flames spluttered out and died. The Floo had been cut off.

“—oh, I very much doubt they would return a second time if we’ve scared them off the first, Mr. Black,” Sprout’s voice bled through from beyond the door.

Quickly, Grace set the can of Floo powder back on the mantel and threw on her invisibility cloak. Just as she disappeared, the door opened and Sprout toddled through with an amiable expression plastered on her face. A panicked Regulus was right on her heels.

“But, professor—” he began desperately.

“Don’t worry, dear, I’ll be having a talk with all the fourth-years tomorrow to get to the bottom of this,” Sprout reassured, patting him on the shoulder in consolation. “Now, I’d best return to my grading.”

“Er—okay,” Regulus croaked out. His eyes flitted over the otherwise empty room, relaxing when he didn’t catch sight of Grace.

Sprout returned to one of the tables. Grace slipped outside, following after Regulus. She whipped off her cloak, and Regulus jumped at her abrupt arrival.

“Sweet Circe,” he breathed. “Well—what happened?”

“No answer,” she said emptily. “It’s disconnected.”

A faintly troubled look passed over Regulus. “They might have closed off the Floo. It’s a measure the Ministry has been recommending some families—”

“What if they didn’t, though? What if… Godric—what if something happened?”

“No,” he disagreed softly. “If something happened to James, Dumbledore would have informed you.”

“Right. Yeah,” Grace said, nodding along. It made sense, of course. But the turmoil simmering at the pit of her stomach didn’t lessen in the slightest.

They made their way up the main staircase, hurrying up to the Come-and-Go Room. They kept quiet all the way, each worried, thinking pensively on what to do next.

Once they were inside the Room, Grace burst, “I have to go, don’t I? If he won’t pick up the mirror, and if we can’t get to him via owl or Floo—it has to be in person. I have to get to Godric’s Hollow.”

“You can’t disappear tonight,” Regulus warned. “We have to meet with the others to figure out our positions tomorrow. Yaxley and Rosier will be keeping a close eye on us.”

“And Myrcella,” she added. She let out a small groan of frustration. “Merlin—it’s all too _fast_—”

“And we still have to figure out how to get rid of those Aurors before Yaxley and Rosier do,” Regulus sighed, collapsing in a nearby armchair.

Grace fell on the sofa across from him, splaying out over the cushions. “I’ve been thinking about that one. I figure if we get students out earlier than Yaxley or Rosier intend and the Aurors see a bunch of Hogwarts-age kids milling about the town, they’ll be on high alert.”

“Could work,” he agreed. “They might bring in more Aurors to rally the students back to Hogwarts.”

“Even if they don’t, they’ll at least be suspicious if a bunch of students appear out of nowhere.”

“Right. It’ll be harder to take them by surprise. How do you intend on getting students to Hogsmeade early? Rosier’s supposed to be rallying them up to go together after supper.”

“I’ll ‘accidentally’ reveal a tunnel or something. They won’t have to go with Rosier if they can find their own way to Hogsmeade. I’ll seal it up later, after they come back.”

He nodded. “All right, sounds feasible. And with James—”

“I don’t know,” she said. “I can keep trying the mirror, but he must have put it somewhere. He might not even have it… Merlin—what if he’s not even at Godric’s Hollow anymore? He might have gone to a safer house.”

“That’s what I was thinking,” Regulus admitted. “The house might be abandoned.”

“Good Godric…”

“It’s still worth a try to check.”

“Yes, but _when_?”

He didn’t answer immediately. Grace’s gaze shifted towards the ceiling. There was a candlelit chandelier swinging from the center of it. It looked disturbingly similar to the one at Malfoy Manor.

“Go tomorrow,” Regulus said suddenly.

She turned to him. “What?”

“You can go tomorrow. At Hogsmeade. We’ll all be beyond the anti-Apparition wards. With the extra students and the Aurors, Yaxley and the others will be too busy to keep an eye on you. You can go to Godric’s Hollow. If James is there, you can tell him what’s happening, and he can bring reinforcements.”

It was a slapdash plan, but at least it was a plan.

“Okay,” she agreed. “What if he’s not there?”

“Then we have to figure something else out.” Regulus hesitated for a moment. “If it turns out he’s gone into hiding somewhere else…we might just have to go to Dumbledore.”

“Dumbledore?” Grace exclaimed. “We don’t _know_ him—”

“He seems peaceable,” Regulus argued. “I think if you went to him, he’d help you, and—honestly, at this point, I’m more worried about you than me. You-Know-Who isn’t pleased with you. You need help.”

She pursed her lips. “We can’t go directly to Dumbledore. You know we can’t. He’s nice, I know—but he’s clever, too. Why would he take two spies when one suffices?”

Regulus’s gaze fell from hers. “I didn’t say ‘we.’ I said ‘you.’”

She eased herself up on the sofa, struck. “Reg—”

“If he can only take one, if he only _wants_ one, it should be you. You’re the only one of us who didn’t join because they were cowed into it. If Dumbledore wants one spy, it should be you.”

“No,” she said. “It can’t just be me. I promised you. _I promised you_, Reg. It’s both of us or none of us.”

* * *

Grace had no idea what to expect at Hogsmeade. She’d left the tunnel behind the statue of Gregory the Smarmy open, which had been quickly found by a few prowling students. By the time Rosier set out with his contingent of students, she was sure dozens had made their way to Hogsmeade by themselves. She could only assume the patrolling Aurors were in a panic.

“Over here,” Gibbon’s disembodied voice floated through the air.

“Where?” Yaxley hissed. “We can’t fucking see you, remember?”

“Over _there_,” Gibbon stressed. “The woodsy area by the Shrieking Shack.”

“What?” Snyde’s distressed voice came through. “Over there? Isn’t that place haunted?”

Grace let out a low sigh and tightened her hold of the invisibility cloak around herself before setting towards the spot Gibbon had decided would be their base of operations. As she arrived, she whipped her cloak off and stuffed it into the pocket of her robes. They were not her usual robes. A deep black and somewhat tattered, they had been handed to her—along with a silver-lined mask—by Yaxley. Apparently, it was the official Death Eater uniform.

“Where’s Rosier?” Gibbon complained, having taken off his cloak as well. “He was supposed to be waiting for us.”

“He did get his lot to Hogsmeade, right?” Snyde asked.

“He did,” Yaxley said. “I saw him leave.”

Snyde rolled his eyes. “Yeah, we all saw him leave, you plonker. I’m asking if anyone knows if he _arrived_.”

“How would we know that?” Gibbon snapped. “We all just got here.”

Grace turned to Regulus. His face was obscured by his own mask, but she was certain he was wearing the same exasperated expression she was.

“Let’s just move on,” Yaxley said, already marching forward, wand out. “Whether or not he made it, we still have to take care of those Aurors.”

Snyde and Gibbon set after Yaxley eagerly. Regulus and Grace followed more cautiously, hands tight around their own wands. As they inched away from the outskirts of the town, coming closer to the center, they heard shouts—some of protest, many of demand. Alarmed, Yaxley picked up the pace, racing ahead. He stopped just short of the corner of the Hog’s Head. The others caught up quickly.

“What is it?” Snyde asked.

“‘What is it?’” Yaxley repeated. He turned to Snyde threateningly. “You said there were only two guards! Why are there _five_ out there—”

“Five?!” Gibbon peeked his head out. “Sweet Circe…”

Grace followed suit, shifting closer to the corner. Just beyond the edge of the building, she could make out five Aurors trying in vain to corral wayward students. It seemed they were well aware Hogwarts students were not allowed to leave the castle, and they were pulling aside individual students to take down names. Several older students were trying to argue with Aurors. A few younger ones were bawling. Many were trying to flee back to Hogwarts.

“What in Merlin’s name _happened_?” Snyde said in shock.

Regulus shrugged. “I suppose Rosier messed up.”

“I’m going to murder that idiot,” Yaxley growled.

“Never mind that,” Gibbon said. “What are we supposed to do now?”

“What we’re meant to do,” Yaxley said. “What the Dark Lord instructed us to do.”

And with those brave words of loyalty, Yaxley did what Grace felt was just about the stupidest thing he could have done: he stepped out of the cover of the building and charged towards the Aurors, wand aloft. Gibbon followed suit, more out of concern than any real faith in their mission. Snyde seemed rather reluctant to do anything at all—but he had to. They all had to, lest word reached You-Know-Who that they hadn’t carried out his command.

With a heavy heart, Grace left the hiding spot and tried to get to Yaxley as discreetly as possible, if only to pull him aside and knock some sense into his brain. Unfortunately for her, an Auror had caught sight of Yaxley and was now shooting spells at him. Grace ducked into a narrow alleyway, wondering what on earth she was supposed to do now. The other Aurors, having spotted Yaxley in Death Eater garb, were now more concerned with getting the remaining students as far away from Hogsmeade as possible, taking two at a time and Apparating them away. Gibbon, meanwhile, was hurtling to help Yaxley, and—to Grace’s utter horror—he grabbed Regulus to assist as well.

Yaxley and Gibbon were dueling with brutal strength. Regulus was trying to avoid the fight by leaving the area entirely, but he was pinned between Gibbon and a building. The Auror seemed to be more than well-matched for both Yaxley and Gibbon, out-maneuvering their more offensive spells and re-routing most of their own spellwork back at them.

She wasn’t sure how long they would last.

“Potter!” Snyde said, coming up beside her.

She nearly leapt in surprise. “Fucking—you can’t yell my name like that—!”

“Right, right, sorry—look, this plan’s shot. We ought to get out.”

“All right, then leave.” She turned her gaze back on the duel, trying to find a way to help Regulus out of the situation he’d found himself in.

“Yeah, it’s just, you know—”

Yaxley set out a blast of orange light. The Auror rolled out of the way, but the spell hit the shop behind him, creating an earth-shattering explosion.

“—I can’t Apparate, so—”

Debris rained down on the Auror and the Death Eaters. Grace took the moment to hurl herself out of her spot. She darted forward, wand aloft.

“Stupefy!” she cried out.

The jet of red light hit the Auror square in the chest. Panic seized his face as he went rigid. Grace exhaled a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding in.

“Good one!” Yaxley crowed, using the chance Grace had provided to lunge forward. His wand arced through the air, aiming for the falling Auror. “Avada Kedavra!”

And—just like that—the panic eased away from the Auror. Grace had never seen someone die before, not right in front of her. This wasn’t anything like how she expected it to be. She thought it might have been slower, time stilling and stopping all around her, the seconds dragging on long enough for her to _do_ something, anything. But, instead, it all seemed fast, too fast. She blinked, and the body hit the ground—dead.

She didn’t even have time to process what had just happened before Rosier came running towards them, black cloak whipping behind him, his mask slightly askew, having been hastily fitted onto his face.

“There’s more coming!” he cried out.

It was an unnecessary warning. The unmistakable sound of Apparition filled the air—a blaring _crack!_ every few seconds—as dozens of Aurors entered Hogsmeade.

Snyde tackled Rosier and held him by the shoulders. Wide-eyed and frantic, he cried out, “Get me out of here!”

In the blink of an eye, they disappeared. Gibbon seemed to take this as a sign to retreat, too, and within moments he vanished as well. Regulus tore forward, away from Yaxley, who was moving deeper into the crowd of screaming students, all by himself now.

Grace found herself swept by Regulus, her hand taken in his. They ran together, hurtling away from the students and impending battalion of Aurors. They fell into the line of hedges and shrubs that obscured the Shrieking Shack. Bramble scratched against Grace. Her grip around Regulus was tight and unrelenting. She fixed her destination in mind and, within seconds, they were gone, too.

* * *

They landed in a heap, collapsed into a bush of hydrangea. Grace scrambled up and tore off her ragged black cloak. She clawed at the mask that adorned her face and threw it into the dirt. It stared up at her silently, cold and indifferent. Her wand fell beside it. The old silver thing seemed dull and worn. Her stomach churned at the sight of it, at the feel of it, the memory of her hand outstretched, the red bolt reaching out to strike the Auror, and then Yaxley taking that moment to lunge—that awful flash of green streaking through the air.

She hadn’t shot the Killing Curse, but it felt like she did.

“He actually…”

“Yeah.” Regulus removed his own mask. He sat heavily amongst the flowers, knees drawn up, face pale and pinched. “He did.”

The weight of that moment rested on them heavily. Grace stared forward blankly. Regulus rose shakily, dusting off the front of his robes. He cast a glance around the town square they had landed in. The sky was darkening fast, but the streetlamps had not yet been turned on. There were only a few people lurking about—some ambling along the cobblestone street, others stepping out of shops as they closed up—and none were by the bush.

“Where are we?” Regulus asked once he got his bearings.

“Godric’s Hollow.”

“Oh. Right.” He looked around aimlessly for a moment before spotting a bench further along. He picked up his mask and rolled it into his cloak before looking at Grace. “Do you want me to come with you?”

She hadn’t yet swallowed the sight at Hogsmeade. She stared at him, rattled. “Reg—”

“I know,” he said quietly. His free hand caught hers. “I know.”

“—that wasn’t just some student. That was an _Auror_. The Ministry won’t rest until they catch Yaxley and… And what about _us_? Are we accomplices?”

A horrified shadow fell over Grace’s face but Regulus remained composed.

“Yeah,” he said. Her stomach lurched. “We are. Until we help the Order, we are.”

She tore her eyes away from him and nodded. “Right—right, I have to go to James—”

“Do you want me to come with you?” he asked again.

“No, it’s okay. He might not take your presence well.” She gathered her mask and cloak into one bundle and handed it off to Regulus before pocketing her wand. “You can stay around here. I’ll come back and get you when James agrees.”

“What if something happens?”

“Like what?”

“Like—” he struggled for the first time, “—if your brother reacts poorly—”

“No,” she said immediately. “No, this is _James_.”

“What if it’s not just him there?”

She considered it. “Okay, do you see that path down there?” She pointed to a rundown lane that ran adjacent to a cemetery. “Keep walking down and you’ll see this nice grove with some houses. Mine’s the one with the thatched roof and hornbeam tree in the back. If I’m not back in an hour, go there, all right?”

“An hour’s a long time…”

She leaned up and pressed a soft kiss against the crown of his head. “I’ll be right back,” she promised.

With that, she set down on the old, twisting path that led to the Potter Cottage. A shiver climbed up her spine as she found herself at the onset of the house. James was definitely there. She knew it from the healthy green shoots of fluxweed that lay in the garden, the pert and blinding white of the jasmine that encircled the house. James had revived Mum’s garden.

She pressed on, unlocking the iron gate and stepping through. She felt a shift in the air, some quiet recognition of her arrival—the wards at work. A small bubble of panic burst in the pit of her stomach, but still she moved forward, coming onto the porch of the cottage. From beyond the door, she could just faintly hear rummaging—books being tossed aside, footsteps shuffling frantically. She took a deep breath, curled her hand into a tight fist, and knocked.

“I—ah, shit—” she heard James yelp as he tripped over something, “—I’ve got it, Lils.”

It was hardly half a minute later when the front door swung open and she was met with the sight of James—tall and gleaming. His eyes roved over her. His glasses sat askance on the bridge of his nose. His robes, the sweeping grey all Aurors wore, were clumsily buttoned up, and he was missing a sock.

As his eyes met hers, his jaw fell open. “I—_Grace_?”

She couldn’t keep her hands still, so she forced them into her pockets. “Yeah, hullo, I—”

“Merlin’s fucking—you tripped the wards—” he proceeded to lower his wand before bringing it right back up with renewed force, “—wait, no, Grace is at Hogwarts. Who are you?”

“It’s me…?” she said, dumbfounded.

He scoffed. “Right, sure. They tried this with the Longbottoms—”

“What in Godric’s good name are you talking about? It’s _me_!”

“What did we call each other when we were little?”

“What?”

His wand raised higher. “If you don’t answer in the next five seconds, I’ll stun you and take you along with me to the Ministry.”

“I—I called you Jam-Jam, and you called me Grassie. I couldn’t say ‘James,’ so I said ‘Jam.’ And you couldn’t say ‘Grace,’ so you said ‘Grass’—well, really, you probably said _Gwass_ or something, but Mum ate it right up and—er—can you lower your wand now?”

He did, but the glower stuck to his face didn’t waver. “_Grace_—”

“Yeah, it’s me—”

“—what are you _doing_ here?”

She suddenly felt very small. Her gaze fell from his. “Well. I, er, needed to talk to you. I tried to use the two-way mirror but it wasn’t—”

“I can’t talk right now,” James interrupted. There wasn’t a shred of sorry in his voice. “I’ve got to go to the Ministry. Something urgent’s come up.”

“Right. It’s just that this is really important.”

His lips thinned. “In case you didn’t hear me right, something very _urgent_ has come up at the _Ministry_ for _me_.”

“Yeah, okay—then, do you think you could just call me back on the mirror?”

He was already retreating back into the house. “I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“I broke it.”

“You—what? Why?”

“_Why_?” he repeated. “Why do you think? I thought you’d call after that disaster of a funeral and _apologize_—and you never did! Like a fool, I sat moping around that blasted mirror before I finally decided it wasn’t worth it and just threw it away—”

“That—that’s what I’m here to do _now_,” Grace insisted. “I’m here to apologize. I’m sorry, James. I really am, and I really do have to talk to you—”

“And I really can’t talk right now.”

“But I—”

“Merlin! What don’t you understand? I’ve got to _go_. An _Auror_ just died—”

“I know! I—”

“What? What do you mean you know?” Realization flooded his face. “Merlin’s beard… You were there, weren’t you? You snuck out to Hogsmeade. Is that how you got here?”

She winced. “Yes, but—”

“Merlin, Grace!” he burst. “Are you thick? We’re in the middle of a war right now. There’s a _reason_ Dumbledore stopped visits to Hogsmeade. It’s dangerous to have a bunch of underage wizards and witches roaming around in clusters. You’re such easy targets for Death Eaters!”

“I’m not underage—”

“Yeah, well, you’re not exactly a fully trained Auror, are you?”

Her lips pursed. “Neither are you.”

A flash of hurt crossed his face, but it faded quickly. “Actually, I am now.”

“Oh.” She instantly felt guilty and tried to backtrack. “Er—congrats—”

He scoffed and moved to shut the door. Grace reared forward in blind desperation.

“Wait—James! You have to listen to me. It’s about the funeral. It’s—”

“About the funeral? Oh, why didn’t you say so sooner? Shall I invite you in for a cuppa?” Every word that left his mouth dripped with a venomous sarcasm.

She recoiled from him. “I just want to… Look, I said some things I shouldn’t have, but—”

“Yeah, you said quite a lot of things you shouldn’t have,” he interrupted. “‘I’m so tired of our family,’ you said. Do you know how long I spent thinking about that, Grace? How long I spent wondering where I went wrong? What I could have possibly done to offend you so deeply? What _Lily_ could have done to deserve you hurling that—that _word_ at her?”

“I didn’t mean that, James.” Her voice had never been smaller. “Really, I didn’t—”

“You still said it. You still… Merlin, Grace,” he exhaled.

“I didn’t mean any of it. I was just looking for a fight. I didn’t actually mean any of it.”

“Really?” he said, and Grace was filled with momentary relief. But the hard look in his eye didn’t falter, and he plowed on, “Because I think you were onto something. Do you remember what you said? You said they loved me best, loved me _more_. But the thing is, you got it flipped. Mum and Dad cared _so_ much more for _you_ than they did for me. Took you all over the world to search for Healers to cure you. It didn’t matter the cost. You got the bigger room, more presents at Christmas, sweets past bedtime. You never got in trouble. It wasn’t possible when it came to you. You could have lit the cottage on fire, and Mum and Dad would’ve turned a blind eye. I could have stepped on a floorboard too loudly while you were recovering from a paroxysm, and Mum and Dad would’ve taken my broom away for a week.”

These were silly, childish examples, and James and Grace knew that. But they both also knew it was speaking to something much larger, something that had been ignored for a very, very long time.

“But I never complained,” he continued. “I never held it against you. Hell—I still don’t. S’not your fault you got saddled with one of the worst conditions out there. But what is your fault is how you handled it. How you assumed the worst of everyone—including yourself. Merlin—you thought I hated you in your first-year, just for being Sorted into Slytherin. You thought it was always about you, Grace: your condition, your Sorting, your feelings.”

They stared at each other for one long moment. Grace’s eyes were damp, and James’s were bone-dry.

“I’m sorry,” she tried.

“I don’t want to hear it.” The words fell from James’s lips so carelessly, with such distance and coldness, that for a moment Grace thought this was a stranger and not her brother. 

“W—what?”

His hand was on the edge of the door, ready to close it. Grace put her palm up against the wood. She had never considered this before, hadn’t thought it needed to be considered. James was always there, had always been there. There wasn’t a moment in her life when he wasn’t. He was there when she was three and tripped down the stairs, trying to magic away the bruises with a toy wand. He was there when she had her first paroxysm, crawling under the hospital sheets at St. Mungo’s so she wouldn’t have to sleep alone. He was _supposed_ to be there—by letter, by two-way mirror, by Floo. Grace was half-sure it was a law of the universe.

“I don’t want to hear what you’ve got to say regarding the fight.” James’s voice grew hard. His hazel eyes—so like Grace’s, so like their father’s—flashed. “I’m not interested. Not anymore.”

The world grew narrower. Grace’s heart was beating so fast it was beginning to stumble over itself. “James, I—I can explain, I promise—”

“How?” he demanded. “How are you going to explain this? Are you going to pull out another half-arsed apology?”

The hand she had against the door was trembling. Her thoughts were scattered. “The reason I came is much more complicated. I just need you to listen for a moment. Just for a moment. I came to apologize and to tell you that—well, you mentioned your Order before. Dumbledore’s Order. I want to join it. I want to help with the war.”

He stared at her for half a second before breaking out into laughter. It wasn’t anything kind or comical. It was a harsh laughter, rough and mocking—the sort of laugh he threw at students he’d jinxed when he was a knobheaded teenager. Grace had never been on the receiving end of it.

“You—_you_ think you could join us?” He shook his head. “No—Merlin, Grace, you can’t even follow simple instructions to stay at Hogwarts and out of Hogsmeade. Do you think the Order would take you in?”

“I was at Hogsmeade for a _reason_. I was—”

“You were only thinking for yourself is what you were doing,” he cut in. “You only… You think only for yourself. You look out only for yourself. You’re greedy, Grace. The Order doesn’t have a place for people like that.”

“James—”

“You _want_ me to listen to you. You _want_ me to forgive you. You _want_ me to help you with whatever it is you need, but my feelings in the matter don’t matter, do they? You want and you want, but you never give.”

Her chin trembled. “That’s not fair. You—”

“I wanted, too,” he admitted. “I was spoiled, too. I’m not saying I wasn’t. I wanted Mum and Dad to give me the whole world. I expected it of them. We both did. The difference between us now is that I’ve grown up. Sixth year knocked some sense into my head. Seems to me you still want everything. Seems to me you think you _deserve_ everything.”

“That’s not—James, please, you’ve got to hear me—”

“You don’t get it!” he cried out. His voice broke somewhere in the middle. “What you said… That _hurt_. It really did. It…” He shook his head and trailed off. “I’ve wasted enough time on this. I’ve got to go. The next time you think you’ve got an apology to offer up, save us both the time and just don’t.”

And then he closed the door. It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t like the slams of James’s youth—one ear-splitting bang as he kicked the door shut whenever he was upset. This was quiet, heartbreaking. The door locked quietly into the frame with Grace’s hand still pressed against the front.

Grace stared into the wood blankly and then she raised her fist and knocked again. There was no response, not even a small groan of annoyance beyond the door. She knocked again, knocked louder, knocked harder, knocked until her knuckles stung and ached, knocked until it was more like she was punching the door.

It was only when the lights began to flicker out one by one, dousing the house in darkness, that her hand retreated. She turned her back on the house she lived and laughed and loved in, the brother she lived and laughed and loved with, and began the long climb back to the town square. All the while, it was her own voice ringing in her head, her own plan swirling in her mind, mocking her. _Wait. Find. James. Spy. Save._ James had been the only constant, the only person she could truly rely on—and she had taken him for granted. People could only be hurt so much, and in her desperation to save Regulus, in her grief and her rage, she had pushed him too far away. She had wounded him to the heart. She had left him. She had chosen her side, and James had figured, very quickly, it was not the same as his own.

She staggered back to the hydrangea bush and found that Regulus was no longer there. The streetlamps were now on, casting soft spots of light over the area. Just a bit further ahead, at the cemetery, she spotted a robed figure. Had she not felt so dazed by the confrontation with James, she might have asked Regulus why he was lurking around a cemetery during the night like a serial killer. Instead, she reached his side silently and looked down to see what it was he was stooped over.

It was her parent’s joint grave. She had never examined it closely before, but now, under the sparse moonlight, she could make out the epitaph engraved into the stone: _I shall but love thee better after death._

It felt like a punch in the gut. She was reminded of one of those final moments with her father in St. Mungo’s. Their hands clasped together, his pitying look, the promise that fell from his lips: _Always, always, always_. She had never told her father what it was she was going to do. If he knew, now, that she had joined You-Know-Who, that she had shot back an Auror to his death, that she had a plan but was failing terribly at it—would he have closed the door on her, too? James was like their father, and love could only stretch so far.

Tears sprang to her eyes. “Liar,” she choked out, unsure if she was referring to herself or her father.

Regulus shot up at the sound but relaxed when he saw her. “Oh, I didn’t know you—are you all right?”

She wiped at her face angrily and stalked away, each footstep digging hard into the soft earth. Regulus followed her out of the graveyard quietly. Under the light of the streetlamp, their shadows joined together.

“What happened?” he asked after the silence had gone on for too long.

“I messed up.”

Regulus inhaled sharply. “What? What do you mean?”

She pushed past him and continued on to the hydrangea bush. “I hurt him too deeply.”

* * *

She Apparated without Regulus, right into the mouth of one of the tunnels that led back to Hogwarts, and marched forward, trying to stamp away the hurt and anger roiling inside her, eating away at her.

She wasn’t doing a very good job.

By the time she emerged in the castle, her eyes were streaming with tears. She and James had fought before, yes, but only so far as the other could take it. That had always been the unspoken rule. No jokes about Grace’s condition. No teasing about James’s crush. Sometimes they skirted the line, of course. Sometimes there was the jab about their Sorting, but never anything more. Except at the funeral. There had been so much more at the funeral, truth and fiction melding together until they seemed almost indiscernible from one another. They had each pushed and pushed and pushed until the bridge between them came tumbling down. _Then go. If you’re so tired of us, then just go_. She hadn’t realized it then: the finality of it all.

Now that she knew, it felt like another death. It felt like she was mourning all over again. The hurt of the funeral and the exchange at Godric’s Hollow were inescapable—vast and strangling. It welled up inside her, thick and coiling, rounding and wrapping around her heart until she felt choked and crushed by the weight of it.

She rushed to the nearest bathroom in a blind haze, rubbing at her cheeks, almost wishing to pluck her eyes right out of her skull so that she might stop crying. She caught onto the edge of a nearby sink and hunched over it, dark curls draping over her shoulders. She took a few slow, shallow breaths, trying to catch a hold of her pain, trying to understand and control it.

But it, like so many things now, was beyond her control.

With great difficulty, she managed to slow the hammer-hard beat of her heart, managed to catch her breath and stop her tears. She lifted her head and caught her eyes in the mirror—a flash of hazel, her father’s eyes, her brother’s eyes—and the careful calm came undone. Fresh hurt tore through her, and suddenly she was weeping again. Her skin felt heavy, soiled and stained with the weight of her lies. Were they even lies? She couldn’t tell anymore. _They loved that you weren’t me_. Wasn’t that true? Didn’t the Gryffindors absolutely adore James? Didn’t the whole school fall all over themselves just to get close to him? Didn’t the professors dote on him? Award him Head Boy when nothing he had ever done warranted it?

Or—was she in the wrong here? James drank up so much light, shone so brightly, it was sometimes difficult to see anything but him. But if she had stopped a moment, if she had swallowed down her envy better, she might have seen what he had: a daughter coddled by her parents until the day they died, a student who had gotten as much sympathy and help as she had disgust.

Maybe they were both right. Maybe they were both wrong. Maybe the problem wasn’t anything to do with the world or how it had treated them. She was beginning to think it had just been her—her outlook, her mindset—but she didn’t know how to apologize for herself.

She was just Grace. She had never known herself to be so confusing, so complex.

“Oh, dear…” a small, high voice called out.

Grace hurriedly wiped the sleeve of her robe against her eyes and turned around to find Moaning Myrtle hovering by the stalls that lined the bathroom. This, it turned out, was the abandoned girl’s bathroom. That certainly explained the lack of occupants.

“I’m just going—” Grace began gruffly.

“You’re _crying_,” Myrtle said in wonder, swooping over Grace. “My, my, I never thought I’d see the day—”

“Just—bugger off!” Grace cried out. She shot the ghost the most menacing glare she could muster, but, paired with her damp cheeks and red eyes, it did very little to scare Myrtle.

“Oh, no, I wouldn’t dare,” she giggled, whirling around Grace. “This is just too good. I haven’t forgotten that game you started—the one where you threw objects through me and gave out points depending on which body part they hit.” Her tone turned imperious. “You _do_ know that it’s uncomfortable for objects to pass through ghosts, right? It’s like an itch you can’t scratch.”

“Shut up! Does it look like I care? Merlin—”

“What is it you’re so upset about?” Myrtle prodded. “Lots of people come crying in here. I’ve gotten rather good at giving advice.”

“It’s none of your business. Go away.”

“Is it that someone was mean to you?” she plowed on. “Most people are upset because someone’s bullied them. I’d be rather surprised if that’s the reason you’re here. You’re usually the one bullying other people, aren’t you?”

Grace swallowed thickly and chose not to respond, whirling away from Myrtle.

The ghost floated after her, tutting quietly. “That’s it, isn’t it? Someone was rude to you. I don’t think you’ve got a right to feel so bad about it. You’re very mean. Do you know how many boys and girls have come in here crying about _you_?”

“I don’t… I don’t mean it, not really,” Grace tried. _I didn’t mean any of that, James._ “They usually start it, and I just throw their words back at them.”

Myrtle wasn’t buying it. She floated around the faucet. “Davey Gudgeon only ever wanted to tell you how much he cared about you. Did you know that?”

“He was bothering me.”

“He just wanted to _talk_ to you. He was a wreck after his big match. Lost the game and the girl. Sobbing like something wretched.” She let out a ghostly sigh. “I would’ve let him talk to me… Smart _and_ strong, what a catch…”

“Yeah? Well, you can go pine after Davey Gudgeon all you like if you just sod off and leave me alone.”

Myrtle let out an indignant noise. She drifted away, back towards the stalls. “This is why no one bothers with you…”

“Good,” Grace bit. “I don’t want anyone to bother with me. I don’t want—”

She was talking to thin air. Myrtle had vanished into the floor. Grace stared at the tiles with great fury, as though she might be able to telepathically communicate her rage to Myrtle, before a new wave of heartache and grief washed over her.

She fled from the bathroom, slipping through the shadows of the hall until she reached the seventh floor. Curiously, there was already a door in the otherwise blank space of wall, meaning Regulus had arrived at Hogwarts. She faltered at the sight of the door, briefly considering walking away instead of explaining to Regulus how deeply, how _badly_, she had failed, before realizing she could not afford to push away another person.

She reached for the knob.

Beyond the door, Regulus was curled in an armchair and deeply agitated. His forehead was wrinkled with lines. When he heard the door creak open, his head snapped up. There had been some semblance of frustration embedded in the planes of his face, but when he caught sight of Grace’s red eyes and tear-slick cheers, it fell away. He softened, like he always had, like he always would.

“What happened?” he asked.

There was a bed in the corner of the Come-and-Go Room. Grace crossed the threshold and threw herself onto it, wishing she could sink into the mattress, fade away until there was nothing of her left.

“I messed up,” she said numbly.

He rose. She could hear his shoes clack against the floor as he approached the bedside.

“What do you mean?”

“Am I stupid?” she wondered aloud.

“Grace…”

“Am I dumb? I thought… I thought I was doing it right. I thought I was doing okay. There were some rough patches, I know—” it was taking a great deal of effort not to let her voice collapse into a mess of unintelligible sobs, “—but I thought, ‘At least we’re getting there.’ I thought, ‘It doesn’t matter the journey so long as we reach our goal.’ But this—this isn’t it. Everything went bad the minute we started. Everything went bad the minute I tried to help. And I thought… I thought James could fix it. Once I got to him. But…” Tears were welling up in her eyes again. She blinked her eyes shut. “He’s angry. Really, actually angry. And I don’t know how to fix it. I don’t know that I _can_ fix it. I—I don’t know…”

And because it was Regulus, she didn’t have to say much more about what happened on the front step of the Potter Cottage. He understood. Only he could understand how much it hurt to have a brother close his door on you.

“He won’t listen to you,” Regulus said quietly.

Grace eased herself up. “No… He didn’t want to hear what I had to say. He thinks…”

Regulus perched himself beside her, on the edge of the bed. “Whatever he thinks doesn’t matter. We’ll figure out another way. We’ll go to—”

“No, it _does_ matter. It matters because he’s right. He’s _right_,” she said bitterly, drawing further and further into herself. “I don’t know what to _do_ anymore. I never did, not really. I can’t even See. I couldn’t even get past that first hurdle, and I—” she felt like weeping and laughing all at once, “—I really thought I could be a double agent? Just like that? Merlin, he’s… He’s _right_. I’m selfish. I want so much, too much. I don’t deserve—”

“No,” Regulus said, and his voice was pained, too. “You’ve never been selfish. Look at everything you’ve given up for me.”

“Because I wanted _you_, Regulus.” Didn’t he see? Didn’t he understand it was just another dimension of her desire? That anything she gave up was just so she could gain something else? “I wanted you back.”

“And what’s so wrong with that?” he probed gently. “Is it so wrong to want?”

She shook her head. “It’s that… I want too much, Regulus.”

“No,” he disagreed. “You’ve never wanted more than you deserve.”

“I _do_. I’ve always wanted more. I wanted everything James got. When we were little, I wanted his broomstick, his owl, even his Hogwarts letter.” She knew those were childish examples, but that was exactly the point. It had been years. She was much older now, but it wasn’t as if those wants and wishes had disappeared. They simply changed. They grew with her, became more selfish, more impossible. She wanted the whole world. Sometimes, she thought she might get it. Sometimes, she thought the mere force of her want was enough to get her anything she desired.

“Because you were never allowed it.” In the soft light of the Room, Regulus’s eyes glittered like diamonds. “You only wanted what every other child got. You wanted to fly because everyone else could—and you should have. You deserved it more than anyone. You were meant to fly.”

Slowly, surely, he turned her bitterness into tenderness. She couldn’t even find it in herself to be surprised. He had always been better at Transfiguration than her.

“I know that… But now it’s just…” She didn’t know how to say it. She wasn’t sure she knew herself anymore. “So much.”

“What’s so much?”

“There’s just…so much,” she said lamely. “There’s so much I want.”

He took her hands in his. His gaze was trapped in hers. “Like what? What do you want?”

And in the grey of his eyes, Grace saw herself, sapped and sullen, a yearning thing. In the part of his petal-soft lips and the tremble of his chin and the draw of his dark brow, she saw devotion. In the moment, which fluttered between them like a desperate bird, she saw that Regulus Black would go to the ends of the earth to give her anything and everything she wanted.

“I want the war to be over.”

He reached up, cupped her cheek in his palm and kissed her softly, gently. “It will be,” he murmured against her lips. “We’ll find a way. We’ll figure it out. It’ll end. I promise you.”

Her thumb traced over the sweep of his brow. “Okay,” she agreed, and kissed him again and again.

“What else do you want?”

“I want to be forgiven.”

“I forgive you,” he said immediately. And even though it wasn’t his forgiveness she was looking for, she felt a weight lift off her. He pressed a litany of tender kisses against her lips. In each kiss was a world of feeling. Grace was washed in affection and warmth and adoration. Her heart sprang, blossomed, a heat racing through her veins, lighting her limbs. She couldn’t bear to be away from him. “What else?”

She was drowning in the love of him—in the soft curls of his dark hair, the straight sweep of his brows, the silver pools of his eyes, the hollow of his cheek, the sharp dip of his jaw, the perfect curve of his lips. His hands, ever gentle, ever tender, fluttered over her, and Grace thrilled at the touch—trembled under it, pulled him closer and closer, until there was no distance, until there was no space to breathe, until they could feel only the other because that was the only thing that existed.

“I want your heart.”

“You are my heart.”

He barely got the last word out when Grace crashed her lips against his once more, hungry and wild. They fell into each other, tangled into each other, caught in the mesh that was their lives and their love. Grace was a needling thing, a girl in greed. She reached and she reached and she reached, and Regulus fell. He fell so hard.

Grace grasped at him. The hearth of the Come-and-Go Room flickered out by itself. In the dark, they fit together perfectly, two halves of a whole. She wanted him. He wanted her want.

“You _are_ my heart, you are,” Regulus said again and again, half-strangled and breathless, like the only way he could hold onto the moment was by reminding himself of this simple fact, of this undeniable truth.

“You’re mine, too,” she promised him, and kissed him hard and fast, over and over again.

She wondered if he could tell the meaning behind each bruising kiss. The one she planted firmly on his lips said, _My love for you is the only thing greater than my want._ The ones that she trailed along his collarbone said, _Let me love you until the sky is fire and the stars are dust._ The gentle nibble at the lobe of his ear said, _You are the only one who hasn’t given up on me. All my want is for you._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope everyone is safe and taking care of themselves! As always, thank you for the kudos and comments. They’re super encouraging to read. Keep letting me know what you think!


	15. Rip

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grace falls apart. Regulus picks up the pieces.

When morning came, it was sweet and somber.

Grace hadn’t realized she’d gone to sleep until she awoke to a soft kiss pressed against her temple. She blinked blearily against the low light spreading from the hearth, and found Regulus a hair’s breadth away from her.

“Hello,” he said, voice sleepy and quiet.

Her lips quirked into a tender smile. “Hello.”

They stayed like that for a moment, huddled against each other, entangled in one another. The events of yesterday hit Grace one by one: the mass panic at Hogsmeade, the Auror’s death, the way James refused to listen to her. Again, a terrible guilt began to wrap itself around her. Her eyes flickered up, and she caught sight of Regulus’s half-lidded eyes, that glimpse of shining grey, and that guilt was replaced by overwhelming warmth, a bone-deep affection, so thorough and consuming she couldn’t tear her eyes away from him—from the bedraggled mess of his dark curls or the press of his thick lashes against his skin or the soft pink of his lips.

“What is it?” he asked, quietly amused.

“I love you.”

He blinked, and seemed a little more awake now. He leaned closer and pressed another kiss against her forehead. “I know. I love you, too.”

She preened under his words. More than the _I love you, too_, she liked the _I know_. Of course he knew. He knew, too, the breadth of that love, the depth of it, how unfaltering and overwhelming it was, how much she would give for him. More lovely than being loved was having your own love acknowledged and appreciated and cherished.

“What if we just stayed here for the rest of the day?” Grace asked. Any other day, she would have asked this out of pure laziness. Today, however, she was asking this because she wanted to hide.

“We have to go,” Regulus said, like she knew he would. “I don’t know what sort of state the school is in…”

“It’s probably a mess,” Grace mumbled. “There were so many students out last night. I wonder if they even managed to round them all up.”

“Yeah… Bannerjee’s probably going mad looking for me.”

“Merlin—I almost forgot you were Head Boy.”

A soft snort escaped him. “Honestly? Me, too.” He hefted himself up, stretching his arms out. “I can’t believe I used to want to be Head Boy. Now, there are just so many other things I have to worry about, and my duty as Head Boy isn’t one of them. I wish I could give it away.”

She watched him rise and stumble towards the dresser for fresh robes. “It’s not fair. You should’ve had a normal last year.”

His eyes glanced up to meet hers. “You should’ve, too.”

He disappeared into the newly-appeared bathroom to get ready for the day. Grace sighed quietly to herself before forcing herself out of the bed to get ready as well. It was more difficult than she thought to ignore the previous day. It seemed to haunt her—James, especially. She thought she might feel better after she splashed her face with some cold water and readied herself for the day, but she didn’t. If anything, she felt worse, as though she were betraying her own feelings, somehow, by pretending to look fine when she wasn’t.

Within the hour, Grace and Regulus were heading down to the Great Hall for breakfast. They stuck close to one another, suspicious of the numerous students filing down from the Ravenclaw and Gryffindor towers. There seemed to be more than usual heading to breakfast. Crowds of timid, confused first and second-years were being herded along by Prefects.

“Fuck,” Regulus said suddenly, bowing his head and bolting forward.

Grace followed with surprising speed. “What? What happened?”

“Bannerjee,” Regulus explained hurriedly. “She saw me—and she does_ not_ look happy.”

They blended into the crowd of students, sidestepping students, delving deeper and deeper into the throng. Students surrounded them on all sides. Most were quiet, yawning and trying to rub the sleep from their eyes. A few, however, were avidly discussing the events of last night.

“You know my sister, right?” a nearby Gryffindor said.

“Yeah,” his friend said.

“Well, her ex-girlfriend’s tutor was there last night.”

“Really? At Hogsmeade?”

“Yeah, really. She said it was insane, absolute chaos. Someone got flung into the air—might’ve died if an Auror didn’t step in.”

“Merlin…”

Regulus and Grace exchanged worried looks. They pressed forward.

“You can’t be serious,” another student, a passing Ravenclaw, protested.

“_I am_,” the girl beside her insisted. Grace recognized her to be Mira Finchley. “Everyone thinks it—and the fact he’s supposed to be making some speech now? Surely he’s planning on announcing that the school is closing.”

The two friends diverged as they reached the threshold of the Great Hall. Grace and Regulus carried on towards the end, joined by their fellow Slytherins. She wondered if that might be true. If Hogwarts was closing, what would that mean for her? You-Know-Who would certainly be pleased, but would she? She could always go back to Falmouth, that little rundown home on the coast; perhaps she could fix it up so the draft wouldn’t be so irritating, clear out all of James’s old junk, add some new, bigger rooms. She could make the place invisible to passersby, perhaps put it under the Fidelius Charm. She could live untouched and left alone—except for Regulus, of course. He would have to be there. She could add a library for him, buy books to fill the shelves, curl up on a couch with him as he read some old tome aloud.

Yes, she would be fine. She suddenly found herself wishing Hogwarts would close down, just so she could run away from it all, from her rotten failure.

She seated herself beside Regulus. The usual members of this end of the table—the Rosier twins, Snyde, Burke, and on—seemed less lively than usual. Rosier, in particular, seemed pale and withdrawn. He was sitting next to his sister, who was quietly talking to him about something or the other.

Up ahead, at the front of the hall, Dumbledore was at the podium that overlooked all four tables. His eyes swept over the students filtering in. Once it became clear that all, or at least most, of the Hogwarts population was there, he cleared his throat and leaned forward.

“Good morning,” he said, although nothing in his tone conveyed that there was anything good about this particular morning. He seemed grave, in fact. There was a hard, displeased edge to his voice. “As you are all well aware by now, there was another skirmish at Hogsmeade last night. The difference between last night’s event and the one in September is, of course, that there were Hogwarts students amidst the residents of Hogsmeade. I do not think I need to remind you that Hogsmeade visits have been banned for this year. I am sure many of those who snuck out to Hogsmeade last night were well aware of this, and yet chose to go anyway.”

Dumbledore’s gaze was heavy, unrelenting. Many students squirmed under it. A few even murmured some apologies.

“There is a frustration in the air,” Dumbledore continued. “It has not gone unnoticed. Those of you who have been here for many years now wish to return to the old, carefree days. Those of you who have only just arrived wish to have at least one carefree day. But, sadly, this is not possible while Voldemort evades capture.” Gasps fluttered across the Great Hall. “Yes, _Voldemort_—I beseech you to call him by his name. Fear of a name will only increase fear of the thing itself.” Dumbledore’s electric blue eyes swept across the hall. “When we banned Hogsmeade visits, it was under the hope that this might protect you from Voldemort’s influence and attacks. Some of you dislike this. I know it. Some of you believe you should be out there. Some of you believe hiding is an act of cowardice. It is not. You must understand that each day you are alive and well is a sort of resistance. Voldemort does not wish for you to be alive and well; he is afraid that his opposition will survive his brutality. By being safe, by being protected, by being wise—you incite fear in Voldemort. Do not forget this.”

He allowed this to sink into the students. Some, particularly Slytherins, rolled their eyes at this speech, an act which irritated Grace. She knew better than anyone that Dumbledore was exactly right. Why else would You-Know-Who be so obsessed with closing and capturing Hogwarts if not for his fear of Dumbledore? Of Dumbledore’s wisdom, of his ability to protect?

“Now,” Dumbledore said calmly, tone more noticeably level, “the Aurors I have spoken to have a reasonable belief that there may be students aiding Death Eater presence in Hogsmeade—a presence that could spread to Hogwarts if unchecked. Rest assured, the authorities are investigating this by questioning all those who were found at Hogsmeade last night. I ask that you be patient with their proceedings. If there is anyone here who has any information whatsoever, anything that might prevent the endangerment of our fellow students and faculty, I urge you to speak out. Bravery is not spurred by the absence of fear—rather, _in spite_ of it.”

He paused once more. Grace found herself shrinking in her seat. Under the edge of the table, her hand reached out to find refuge in Regulus’s.

“As for rumors regarding the closure of Hogwarts,” Dumbledore continued, “be rest assured that so long as there is a student in need of teaching, Hogwarts will remain open.”

With that, he stepped down from the podium. Thunderous applause issued from the teachers’ table. The students below followed suit, with particular enthusiasm from the Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs. Grace clapped along as well, feeling considerably less enthused than many of her fellow students. As she surveyed the rest of the Slytherins, she found the majority of the seventh-years were offering lukewarm applause as well. Rosier seemed rather jittery, unable to look directly at the teachers’ table; Snyde was doing a slow clap, apparently deciding now was the best time to begin to mock Dumbledore; Myrcella, Yang, and Fuentes were offering begrudging claps, more out of social compliance than anything.

McGonagall rose and approached the podium. Her bright eyes flashed over the students, waiting until the applause calmed before announcing, “We will be cancelling classes for the day—” joyous cheers erupted from the Gryffindors, which McGonagall silenced with a single look, “—so that those who endured the events of the previous night may rest and those who did not may take the time to reflect. As our Headmaster said, those of you who noticed anything suspicious or alarming last night are encouraged to come forward. You may approach any member of the faculty you feel most comfortable with.”

McGonagall gave a curt nod and stepped away to finish her breakfast. While some students opted to stay in the Great Hall, gathering their friends closer together to chat about the previous day, many rose from their seats and began to filter out, presumably to spend time outside or retreat to their dormitories for some extra sleep.

Grace pushed aside her breakfast, finding herself devoid of appetite, and left the Slytherin table along with Regulus. She felt aimless, not entirely present in the moment. Her plan had crumbled into pieces so small she doubted they could ever fit back together again. She had no idea what to do now, and the weight of that helplessness had her feeling like she was sinking.

“Hey,” Rosier hissed, sliding between them. “Black, Potter—have you seen Yaxley?”

Regulus’s head turned to Rosier sharply. “What do you mean?”

“He never showed last night. I figured he might have gone wherever you two did, but he wasn’t at breakfast either. Do you know what happened to him?”

A shadow fell over Regulus’s face. A shiver crawled up Grace’s spine.

“Last I saw of him, he was heading into the crowd,” Grace recalled.

“The crowd?” Rosier repeated. “You mean the crowd of students?”

“Yeah.”

“What the _fuck_—!”

“Don’t be so loud,” Regulus scolded. He stalled by a small alcove behind a pillar and regarded Rosier worriedly. “Did everyone else make it back? Gibbon and—”

“Yes, Snyde and Gibbon are there. I asked them about Yaxley when I caught hold of them before the old coot’s—” Rosier jabbed a thumb back at the Great Hall, “—speech, but they haven’t seen him either.”

“You don’t think…” Grace began slowly, meeting Regulus’s eyes.

He seemed deeply troubled. “It’s possible. There were a lot of Aurors escorting students.”

“What?” Rosier said, whipping his head between the two. “What are you talking about?”

“Dumbledore mentioned the Aurors had a reasonable belief that students were aiding Death Eaters,” Grace added. Her stomach twisted uncomfortably.

“Yeah,” Regulus said numbly, “he did say that.”

“All right?” Rosier said, confused. “_And_? What does that mean?”

“Yaxley might have been caught,” Grace said.

“_Caught_?!” Rosier said shrilly. “Caught by _whom_? The _Ministry_?”

“Would you stop screaming?” Regulus snapped.

“No, no, _no_,” Rosier said, seeming to be in the throes of a mental breakdown. His hands tangled themselves in his hair. “If he’s there, if he’s being interrogated—he could give us _all_ up!”

“Yeah,” Grace agreed. Her heart was swollen with some horrible feeling. “He could.”

* * *

She was going to Azkaban. She was sure of it after Rosier left in a flurry, presumably to hurl his guts in a toilet. She was sure of it as she headed to the library with Regulus, mindlessly flipping page after page of a book she was supposed to complete a report on. She was sure of it when she lay awake in bed, unable to sleep, staring into the emerald green of her canopy. She was especially sure of it the next evening.

Her classes for the day had just ended, and she collapsed in a heap in the common room, waiting for Regulus to return from Ancient Runes so she could mope with him. She had only just gotten into a comfortable position on the couch (hugging a throw pillow against her chest and propping an additional two around her, like a sort of fort) when a third-year approached her with a letter from Slughorn, asking that she meet with him as soon as possible to address some concerns that had arisen.

This was it. Yaxley must have said something to the Aurors, perhaps that it was _she_ who had stunned that poor Auror, leading to his death, and now she was being called to Slughorn’s office. There was no doubt in her mind that a small army of Hit Wizards would be awaiting her in the small room, wands drawn.

This was the end of her.

She wanted to wait for Regulus so she could warn him, but she was acutely aware that every minute she delayed meeting with Slughorn, the more suspicious he would be. Besides, her arrest would likely make its course through the student body at lightning speed; Regulus would know one way or the other, and he could escape before he got caught as well.

Steeling herself, she rose from her protective mound of pillows and began to walk the twisting path to Slughorn’s office. The dungeons had always been damp and chilly, but today they seemed especially cold. Grace skirted along the shadows; with every step, she felt herself unravelling further and further, until she seemed more tremor than person. She arrived at the office door in disarray, her dark hair unruly, her robes wrinkled, her fingernails bitten down to the nub.

“Ah, Miss Potter,” Slughorn said when he saw her enter. He seemed rather down himself; the usual chortle wasn’t present in his voice. “Thank you for obliging me. If you’d just come in a moment…”

She shuffled inside, dragging her feet along, and sat opposite Slughorn, in a plush chair in front of his enormous desk. There were a few potions bottled atop his table: dazzling yellow and sparkling, Grace recognized the flasks as Elixirs to Induce Euphoria. It had been a side project for the seventh-years a week or so back. Amongst the mess of bottles, Grace recognized her own potion: it was red as rust. She had been so distracted while brewing that she swapped wormwood for aconite.

“Er—how are you, sir?” Grace began in an unusual display of respect, shifting her gaze from the potions.

Slughorn froze momentarily, a few slips of parchment sliding from his hand, as he took in the question. He stared at her for a moment, apparently trying to glean whether this was a trick or not. After a moment, he decided there was no harm in answering and set aside his papers.

“As well as anyone can be, I suppose,” he said in a rather overwrought voice. “Now, I’ve been having this meeting with quite a few students. You see, ever since the start of this term—”

_Here it comes_, Grace thought. _He’s noticed us—Yaxley, Rosier, and all of us._

“—I’ve noticed there has been a dip in your grades.”

This news was so startling, so absurd, that her jaw actually fell open. She had honestly forgotten such a thing as _grades_ even existed. She might have laughed if she wasn’t so overcome with stress.

“Yes, yes,” Slughorn said placatingly, having taken her surprise as nervous shock, “I’ve been talking to a few other professors of yours about this. Minerva and Filius have both mentioned a dramatic decrease in the quality of your work, and, well, our new Defense professor… I haven’t heard much from her.” He tugged on the end of his mustache in thought. “Another student of mine mentioned you were all still on the Patronus Charm?”

“Yes,” Grace croaked out, wondering if she was having a fever dream, “except now we’re meant to do it nonverbally.”

“I see…” Slughorn said, sounding vastly displeased. “In any matter, it appears your performance in Potions, Transfiguration, and Charms has not been going well. I’m well aware that these are troubling times, but it is your future that is at stake here. Is there anything that’s particularly bothering you about these classes? Anything you find difficult?”

“It’s just… I’m not very interested in it,” she said lamely.

A stark silence followed. Slughorn already seemed at a loss, despite the fact the meeting had only just started. He rifled through some more papers absently.

“Well... I seem to recall you telling me you wanted to pursue the standard subjects when we did career counseling—”

“I wanted to pursue a career as a Seer, but you said Hogwarts doesn’t have classes that specialize in Seeing beyond N.E.W.T. Divination. So, I said, ‘Sod it, just sign me up for the standard courses, then.’”

Slughorn cleared his throat. “Ah, yes, _Divination_—” he said the word as though it were some sort of pest, “—do you still have plans to join the field?”

For the second time today, she was taken by surprise. She remembered being enamored by Divination, enthralled by the way Vablatsky could previse and presage with just a shuffle of a few cards. More than the mysticism of it, more than the prestige and the fame—she loved the _control_, how you could hold destiny in your palms, how you could _know_ what would and would not come to pass. She wanted that surety. She wanted that knowledge. She had been so determined then.

But now?

“I can’t do that,” she admitted. She could not, because she could not control when the visions came. She could not, because the force of her gift could drive her mad. She could not, because she was afraid.

Slughorn’s brows lifted, and he leaned forward eagerly. “Oh, I see! There’s no harm in pursuing it as a hobby, of course, but Seeing is hardly a practical job. Do you have something else in mind for when you graduate?”

_A cell in Azkaban._

“No.”

His face fell. “Ah… Well, no matter. You have a great many skills, my dear. If I recall correctly, you made a particularly promising batch of Skele-Gro some time ago. Now, I can’t tell you who my source is, but I have heard that there are talented Potioneers who work in the Department of Mysteries to remedy the nasty after-effects of love potions…”

And on and on he went, droning about how, even if she were no longer very interested in Potions, she could apply herself for a few years before moving up to a more managerial position. And if she wasn’t interested in research, she could simply brew. The Auror Office, apparently, was in great need of Potioneers to mass-produce healing draughts for Aurors on the go. Of course, Slughorn warned, the Ministry salary wasn’t anything to boast about, but the prestige she would receive would be otherworldly. Grace nodded along without quite listening. (What was the point in discussing her future? When she didn’t have one?) By the time he had finished and she was free to go, dinner was halfway over. She climbed the stairs up to the Great Hall sluggishly, as if Slughorn had sapped all her energy by simply talking at her. She arrived at the end of the Slytherin table and found Regulus in his usual spot. She slid down next to him quietly.

He relaxed as soon as she did. “Salazar,” he breathed. “I thought something had happened to you.”

“Slughorn called me for—” she froze as she caught sight of Rosier opposite her.

He looked the same as he usually did—bronze hair, an easygoing slouch—except today he seemed relaxed. This might have been because sitting right next to him was Yaxley. The pale-haired wizard didn’t look especially well off. He was especially sullen—a stark contrast to Rosier’s smiling face—with downcast eyes and a deep frown, pushing his food to and fro across his plate.

“Yeah,” Regulus whispered, catching her line of sight, “he came back about an hour ago.”

“_How_?” she asked.

“I’ll explain after dinner,” he promised. “What did Slughorn call you for?”

“A meeting to discuss my grades,” she explained away. Her eyes were still stuck on Yaxley. She noticed, for the first time, a purplish bruise across his neck, just peeking above the collar of his robes.

The Aurors couldn’t have done that.

“Merlin, and he kept you for that long?” Regulus said, digging into some roasted potatoes.

She tore her eyes away from Yaxley, although questions about where he’d been and who he might have been with continued to roll through her head, and reached a hand to scoop some potatoes, too.

“Yeah,” she said. “It was awful.”

She ate speedily, mostly so she could find out what had happened to Yaxley, but also because the atmosphere of the Slytherin table was far too joyful for her taste. It was as though they lived in a different world from her; Rosier and Snyde were still going on with their stories; the Selwyn sisters were rapidly finishing an assignment of theirs while one of their friends lectured them about procrastinating. Grace knew full well that they were all aware of the war. Many of their relatives, after all, were fighting in it. Was it just that they chose to ignore it? Or were they pretending, like she was, that everything was fine?

She polished off her plate in record time and rose along with Regulus. They left behind their classmates and dashed off to the Come-and-Go Room. Regulus crossed under the blank wall, and a smooth door appeared. The interior was like a small library, as it usually was whenever Regulus wished for a private room, with stacks of old tomes and a few plush armchairs.

“So?” Grace asked once they were safely sequestered inside. “What happened?”

Regulus sighed and fell onto the sofa. “Well, basically, after we all left, Yaxley rushed into the crowd of students and, in true idiot fashion, started torturing a few of them.”

Grace settled down beside him. “Blinking hell…”

“I know. After a few minutes, he realized that he was the only one of us still at Hogsmeade—something he’s very mad about, by the way—and then ditched his Death Eater get-up so he could blend into the crowd.”

“That’s sort of smart.”

“Yes, except he _did_ get picked up by Aurors and carted off to the Ministry, so it wasn’t _wholly_ smart, was it?” Regulus shook his head.

“But he got out. He’s here now.”

“Yes, only because one of our own—Mulciber—works in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, and got a hold of him for questioning before anyone else could. He carted Yaxley off to You-Know-Who so Yaxley could explain, in person, why everything went wrong at Hogsmeade.”

Grace winced, recalling the bruise. “But it wasn’t a total failure, was it? He did get that Auror.”

“Yes, but it wasn’t a _student_, which is what You-Know-Who wanted.” Regulus shrugged half-heartedly. “The only silver lining is that Yaxley took all the blame, since it was his idea.”

Grace relaxed against the couch. “That, and he hasn’t given us up to the Aurors.”

“Yeah…” Regulus said. He was frowning slightly.

“What is it?”

“It’s just—that was a close call. If Mulciber hadn’t been there, the Aurors would have figured him out. Yaxley’s father has already been revealed to be a Death Eater.”

Grace swallowed thickly. “Right.”

“If he _had_ been interrogated, he might have given us all up. And we’d be in Azkaban.” His eyes flew up to meet hers. “We can’t let something like that happen again.”

“No,” Grace agreed. “But how’re we meant to prevent that? We certainly won’t get Ministry backing, and James… Well, you know what happened with James.”

“I’ve been thinking about him, actually. Your brother. I’ve been thinking…”

“Yeah?”

“What if we just went over his head?”

Her brows furrowed. “Over his head? Like, in the Order? You mean—” crease between her brows flattened and her mouth fell open, “—go straight to Dumbledore?!”

“Just, hear me out: We know things are going badly for the Ministry. That means it’s going badly for the Order, too. That means they would benefit from a spy. That means Dumbledore doesn’t have much of a choice but to listen to you—”

“Why are you saying ‘you’ and not ‘we’?”

“Because… Well, it ought to be you.”

“_Regulus_—”

“It’s just that—you _know_ Dumbledore favors Gryffindor more—”

“I’m not in Gryffindor!”

“But your whole family has been—”

“Not every Potter ever born has been in Gryffindor—”

“Yes, but _basically_ every Potter has been. Out of the two of us, Dumbledore is more likely to listen to you than me. I’m fairly certain whenever he sees me, he just sees the Black insignia and motto.”

“And I’m fairly certain that when I come clean to him with _this_—” she ripped up her sleeve, showcasing her Dark Mark, “—he won’t listen to a word I have to say! We don’t _know_ Dumbledore. More than that, Dumbledore doesn’t _know_ us. It was supposed to be James. It was supposed to be James, because James _knows_ me, because James would have _listened_—”

“Except he didn’t,” Regulus said quietly.

She deflated, tugged down her sleeve, and looked away.

“Grace,” he said softly, “I know that Dumbledore doesn’t have any reason to help us or even listen to us—but we ought to try. And I think you’re the only one who can do it. He’s always been sympathetic to you given your condition—”

“You think just because he’s been _nice_ to me on occasion, he’ll help us defect to his side?”

“No, I think because he’s been nice to you, he’ll listen to you. And no matter how resistant he is to the idea, so long as he listens to you, you can convince him.”

She glanced at him. “And what about if Dumbledore only wants one spy? Only _needs_ one spy?”

“Then it should be you—”

“It can’t _just_ be me—”

“Then convince him otherwise. Make him think he needs two. If he’s that desperate for a leg up, he’ll take two rather than none.”

She shook her head. “No—no, Regulus, why—”

“I think this is the best way forward. I think if—”

“But why does it have to be _me_?”

“Well—we can’t go together. If someone caught wind that both of us were meeting with Dumbledore, Yaxley and Rosier would immediately be suspicious. It can’t be just me, because I think he’d judge me by my family instead of me. It should be you. It should be you because you’d convince him of your plan, just like you did me.” His eyes softened. He reached over to grab her hand and brushed a thumb across her knuckles. “I’d help you, of course. You can’t go to Dumbledore of your own accord; if someone were to find out, that would be suspicious. If you were called up, that would be better. I could… Oh, I could see if Slughorn could pass along the message about your grades to Dumbledore. Maybe he’d want to meet with you then?”

She didn’t answer him immediately, instead choosing to tug her hand out of his. She couldn’t tell if this plan was good or not, just that it was a plan, just that she would mess it up if she got involved—just like she had with her own plans.

“What if this doesn’t work?”

“It might not,” he admitted, “but we still have to try.”

“I don’t think I can…”

“Do you remember what you said? In the Hospital Wing after the Ravenclaw game?” He reached towards her again and let his hand unfurl across her cheek. “You said, ‘We keep trying. We think and we try something new.’”

“That was before.”

“Before what?”

“Before I _messed up_, Regulus! Before I—” she couldn’t get the words out, so she let them collapse into her chest, sink down into some deep hole inside her.

“Grace…”

“I’m not good at this. I’m just _not_. I couldn’t even convince You-Know-Who properly. I just got _lucky_. And then the tarot reading happened, and he took it out on _you_. And then I went to James, and he just _wouldn’t listen_. Because I did it wrong! I messed up! I can’t talk to Dumbledore. It’ll go _wrong_—”

“No, it won’t,” Regulus disagreed. “It won’t, because it’s _you_. It’s _Grace Potter_. You won’t let it go wrong.”

“Regulus, I _can’t_—”

“You _can_. You mastered Occlumency in one month—”

“I technically knew it already—”

“—and you survived a Cruciatus curse from You-Know-Who—”

She shook her head. “So did you—”

“Grace—” he cradled her face in his hands and pressed a blistering kiss against her lips, “—listen to me. You’re the strongest person I know—no, _listen_. You _are_. If Dumbledore isn’t convinced, you’ll persuade him. If he’s angry, you’ll show him he ought not to be. If he won’t listen, you’ll _make him_. I know you. _I know you_, Grace. Don’t you trust me?”

It was a ridiculous question. “Yeah,” she croaked out. “I do.”

“I know you can do this. I know it.”

“But just suppose I can’t. Suppose I don’t. Then what?” She was struggling to keep her voice from breaking. “We’ll be in Azkaban, and you’ll hate me.”

“No,” he promised gently. “I could never hate you. I don’t have it in me. And they can’t take us to Azkaban immediately. If this doesn’t work and we’re rounded up and detained somewhere in Hogwarts until the Aurors arrive, I’ll call Kreacher. I’ll call him and I’ll get you, and we’ll leave. Together. Always together. Okay?”

“Okay.” She was trapped in the molten silver of his eyes. “Where will we go?”

“Anywhere you want.” His eyes searched hers. “Anywhere you want, Grace.”

* * *

Regulus did just as he said he would. He sidled up to Slughorn during the next Slug Club meeting and spun a grand old tale about how disinterested and distant Grace had been lately, how rattled she had been after her parent’s funeral, how worried he was for her. Sure enough, she got a letter before the week was up. It was short, no more than two sentences, informing her that the Headmaster had heard of her academic troubles and was inviting her for a private chat in his office.

She was on her way there now, shuffling along the stone floor, Regulus by her side. She had practiced with him—what to say and how to say it. This could not go wrong. They couldn’t afford it. Grace wouldn’t let it.

Regulus stalled by the gargoyle step. Grace came to an abrupt halt, her hand caught onto his.

“What?” she asked, twisting around to him.

His face was drawn and worried. “How do you feel?”

“I’m afraid,” she said honestly.

She was afraid it would all go awry. She was afraid that it only took one misstep—one wrong word—and suddenly they were both in Azkaban. She was afraid, too, that she had been more wrong than she thought, that she wasn’t meant for any of this, that she wasn’t and would never be the sort of hero James was.

Regulus leaned forward and cupped her face. He pressed a gentle kiss against her lips. There was so much warmth and affection in that movement that, for a moment, her fear abated. She could do this. For Regulus, she could keep her head straight and her tongue sharp. For Regulus, she could do anything.

He pulled away and whispered, “It’ll be all right.”

She trusted him enough to believe that. She gave him a wan smile. “I know.”

“No, no, _no_,” the gargoyle step protested. “Public displays of affection are _not_—”

“Sugar mice,” Grace interrupted.

The gargoyle swung open, revealing the staircase that led to Dumbledore’s office. Grace gave Regulus’s hand one last squeeze before letting go and beginning the long climb up. With every step, the comfort Regulus instilled in her disappeared, overthrown by a burgeoning anxiety. By the time she reached the top and saw Dumbledore sat serenely behind his desk, she felt like she might puke.

“Miss Potter,” Dumbledore greeted. He watched her slide into the chair opposite him. “I trust you’re well?”

“Er—yeah,” she said hoarsely. Unable to meet his eyes, she kept her gaze on the edge of his desk. “How are you, sir?”

“Perfectly content,” he said, giving a brief smile. He clasped his hands together and leaned back. “I must admit, I was quite surprised when Horace informed me of your academic crisis. You’ve shown magnificent promise throughout your time at Hogwarts. Is there any particular reason you’re now disinterested in your classes?”

“I’ve just had a lot on my mind.”

“I see. Do you mind telling me what exactly is troubling you?”

She swallowed thickly and glanced up, just briefly enough to make out the striking blue of his eyes. “There are Death Eaters in Hogwarts.”

He didn’t react like she expected him to. He didn’t gasp or grow angry. He simply became…more tired. The lines in his face never appeared more prominent. Even the blue of his eyes seemed a bit more faded than before.

“Ah,” he said, “I’ve suspected as much. I suppose you have come to tell me about these individuals?”

She hesitated for a moment. “If I tell you…what’ll happen to them?”

“Funny you should mention that,” Dumbledore said lightheartedly. “‘What will happen to them’ is precisely what I and the Head of the Auror Office are currently arguing over. He believes they should be tried; those indicted should be sent to Azkaban, of course. I believe they would not make it to the trial before having their escape orchestrated by Voldemort. It would be much better, I think, to leave them as is.”

She stared at him. “You mean—just let them stay here? In Hogwarts? And let them get away with—with doing all the horrible things they’ve been doing?”

“No, not at all. Once I know of these individuals, my hope is to keep them from doing the horrible things they do. But I think you will agree that the only way I can stop ‘the horrible things they do’ is by keeping them here, where I can have my eye on them. It is vastly preferable, I think, to having them doing horrible things out in the world, where I cannot stop them.”

“Right…”

“If you do not wish to tell me, Miss Potter, I will not force it out of you. But you cannot keep this to yourself forever.”

She took a shaky breath. “All right—well, there’s Magnus Rosier and Corban Yaxley. Both my year, Slytherin. There’s Herwick Snyde, too, but he’s a sixth-year. Slytherin as well. And then there’s Irven Gibbon—my year, but in Ravenclaw. And there’s also—” she closed her eyes briefly, “—Regulus and—”

Dumbledore’s brows lifted for the first time. “Regulus Black?” he said, a shred of disbelief leaking into his voice. “Regulus Black is a Death Eater?”

Grace stared at him. “You…didn’t know?”

“I have never been given reason to suspect Mr. Black.”

“But—but—you made Regulus _Head Boy_,” Grace spluttered, at a loss. “Wasn’t that to keep an eye on him? You must have at least thought he was up to something, right?”

“No, not at all. With such low attendance this year, the pool of candidates to pick Head Boys from is rather small. Of those remaining, half are Slytherin. Of them, I truly believed the one least likely to be involved with Death Eater activities—in _any_ capacity—was Regulus Black.”

Grace’s brows shot up. “No offense, sir, but how in Merlin’s name did you come to _that_ conclusion?”

“To be quite honest, I believed he lacked the nerve. That, and Sirius made quite a big commotion about his brother becoming a Death Eater a few months ago. He only succeeded in making the scenario seem even more unlikely.” He let out a lengthy sigh. “No matter. At least I am aware now. Are there any other Death Eaters in Hogwarts?”

Grace found her gaze dropping from Dumbledore’s kind, weary face. She wrung her hands tirelessly in her lap. It was now or never.

“Yes. One more.”

“Who?”

Her fingers dawdled at the hem of her sleeve. “Me.”

She lifted her sleeve to show the Dark Mark, that swirling snake and sinister skull pressed into the faint copper of her skin. Dumbledore’s eyes glanced down and then back up to her face. Something in his face closed off, became guarded. Gone was the amiable old man who shared lemon drops with students. In his place was the man who defeated Grindelwald, the man You-Know-Who feared.

“B—But I didn’t join because I wanted to join _him_,” Grace said immediately. “I only did it because Regulus got involved, and I wanted to get him out. I had an entire plan. I thought I’d get myself acquainted with You-Know-Who and his lot and once I had some information I could go to James and tell him—and he could use that information for the war effort. But then—but then, James didn’t want to listen and things fell apart… It wasn’t… I didn’t join because I actually _believe_ in it.”

She stopped herself from saying anything more. She was veering dangerously towards blabbering, which wouldn’t do her any favors. She would have to wait to see what Dumbledore might say before she proceeded any further. The problem, though, was that Dumbledore wasn’t saying anything at all. He was simply looking at her, studying her, thinking on what she had said, perhaps thinking further back than that, to the very first time he had met her, to all their interactions these past seven years, trying to decide whether or not she could be trusted. Grace waited for him to come to his decision. She was afraid to break the moment—to ask if he believed her, if she could still be saved, if everything would be all right—so she kept quiet and watched him warily, waiting with a resigned sort of anxiousness as the seconds amassed into minutes.

“I have always underestimated you,” Dumbledore said at last. His tone was mournful, which Grace thought a tad unnecessary. It hadn’t been _his_ fault, after all. “You are familiar, I imagine, with what became of my family?”

Grace’s throat was dry. This, somehow, was worse than rage, than Dumbledore expelling her from Hogwarts or sentencing her to Azkaban. There was an icy calmness to Dumbledore that made Grace tremble.

“I don’t—” she croaked out before faltering. “I know your sister died young.”

It was old Batty Bathilda back in Godric’s Hollow who had shared that little tidbit during one of her infamously dull luncheons. _Oh, I know Albus Dumbledore_, she had said with a faintly knowing smile. This was before Grace had gotten into Hogwarts. This was when Hogwarts was still some shining refuge in the North. This was when Hogwarts was so foreign and unknown it held all of Grace’s hopes, so, of course she leaned forward in anticipation, of course she listened hard when Bathilda went on, and of course she was disappointed when all Bathilda said was that Ariana Dumbledore had passed on at a young age, scarring her brothers.

“Yes,” Dumbledore murmured. “When she was very young—five or six, I don’t recall exactly—she was attacked by a few neighboring Muggle boys for displaying magic. The event left her traumatized, and she was never able to regain control of her magic ever again. Her magic would flare, now and again, in dangerous bursts while she seized and seized and seized…”

Grace swallowed thickly.

“I imagine that is a familiar story for you?”

“Your sister had Hywell’s?”

“No, but I wished she did.” Dumbledore’s voice was a strange combination of wist and bitterness. It made Grace’s heart curl into itself. “When my mother died, I was to take care of Ariana, and I was resentful of it.” He smiled an empty smile. “I loved her, of course, but I wished she was more than she was. I wanted to see if there was any way to help her, cure her. I read about Hywell’s disease, and found literature about its connection to an unlearned Seer’s Inner Eye. I thought…if this was what Ariana had, if I could only help her realize her potential…then perhaps it would have been worth the toil… But it was not anything like that. There was no great twist, no escape for me. Ariana’s life was plain and simple: a tragedy.” Dumbledore leaned forward, and his eyes at last met hers. His gaze stung Grace. “Yours is not.”

Grace felt this was a drastic understatement. Her parents had passed away barely two months ago. She had been tortured by You-Know-Who shortly after that. Her brother had turned his back on her. She was now facing the threat of being sent to Azkaban, and with Regulus, too—the person she had vowed to save. Wasn’t this something of a tragedy?

“I’m sorry about your sister,” she mumbled out.

“I am, too. And I am sorry for having passed over you. All this while…I have always thought you the odd one out, the Gryffindor in Slytherin, the ill girl in the healthy bunch. Even with the pranks and all Horace has told me…I have never thought of you beyond the measure of your condition, and for that I am sorry.”

“It—it’s okay,” she said feebly.

“Is it?” he pondered. “You have grown up shadowed. You have made space for yourself in an incredibly tight position. Your entire family history on one side, the history of your House on the other, and you in the middle. Can you tell me—out of everyone, why Regulus Black?”

“What do you mean?”

“Why did you choose to befriend him?”

_Because I love him_ was the immediate answer that flashed through her head, but it didn’t quite make sense. She didn’t love him when she didn’t know him. On her very first day of Hogwarts, moments after she had been Sorted into Slytherin, she hadn’t loved him then. She had found him rather annoying, actually. But he had cared.

“Because no one else would have me.”

“Ah, the _choice_. It is so pleasing when someone chooses you above all others,” Dumbledore said. “How many choices would you say you have been given, Miss Potter?”

“I don’t know.”

“Did you choose to be in Slytherin?”

“No.”

“Did you choose to have Hywell’s disease?”

“No.”

“Did you choose to be your brother’s sister? Your parent’s daughter?”

Grace pressed her lips together tightly. “No.”

“Did you choose to be a Death Eater?”

She didn’t falter from his gaze, but she felt infinitely more weary under it. “You know I did.”

“It is the choice that matters above all else,” Dumbledore said quietly. “You know this. You chose to join Voldemort rather than come to me—”

“You don’t understand,” Grace said immediately. “Regulus had already joined, but not because he wanted to, and—”

“And you were presented with a choice: to tell me about the Death Eaters in Hogwarts and Mr. Black’s peculiar situation or to take matters into your own hands.”

Grace’s hands curled over the armrests. Her knuckles went white from the strength of her grip. “I could hardly be expected to waltz in here and tell you Regulus was a Death Eater! What if you didn’t listen to me? What if you didn’t believe he’d been forced into it? What if you didn’t care? What if you just shipped him to Azkaban?” Her heart hammered against her chest wildly. “Don’t you understand? I didn’t choose You-Know-Who or his idiot Death Eaters. I chose _Regulus_.”

Dumbledore fell silent. His lips receded into one thin, grave line, and his eyes fell from her gaze. A strange flash of pride flared briefly in Grace’s chest. She knew Dumbledore wasn’t to blame for her situation, but his holier-than-thou attitude was beginning to wear on her.

“It wasn’t _fun_, if that’s what you’re thinking,” she continued, words ferocious and burning. “I didn’t join for a bit of fun like most of the others in our year did. He—he used the Cruciatus on me! _Three times_! No one would ever choose that because they’re simply bored. I chose that because I figured if it would save Regulus—then, yeah, it’d be worth it. And, you know what? I don’t regret it. Not one bit. If me joining You-Know-Who is what gets him out of this mess, then I don’t regret it. I’d do it again if I had to. I’d do it a hundred times. He’d do the same for me if the roles were reversed. I know he would.”

Grace was sure this was the only thing stronger than love: knowledge. Trust. Loyalty. She knew Regulus would do the same for her. She knew he would go to the ends of the earth for her. She knew it like she knew her own heart.

“I won’t sit here and pretend either of us did everything right. I know we didn’t. I know we made mistakes along the way. I know we could have done what we did better. But what’s done is done. There’s no changing it, and I won’t sit here and dwell on it. What matters now is what we do next, and we just want out. We just want to help.”

Dumbledore seemed to have aged twenty years within the span of Grace’s short tirade. He exhaled deeply. “I gather James has told you about the Order?”

“Yes.”

“And you wish to spy for us?”

“Yes—me and Regulus.”

“You must understand why I am having a great deal of difficulty believing you. At the conception of this plan of yours, you must have known that we have no spies of our own. Have you ever wondered why?”

Her mind flashed back to the round of torture, to the brutal push into her mind. “Because You-Know-Who knows Legilimency.”

“Correct. Anyone we sent in was always found out, and quickly, too—but not you. Do you see why I am suspicious? How is it you were able to join, with a plan as dangerous and duplicitous as yours?”

“I—” her mouth was dry, “—I don’t know. He almost got to it. The plan. But something stopped him. I don’t know exactly what.”

“It is exactly that sort of answer that has me suspicious,” Dumbledore said.

“No, wait, it’s just…” Grace’s throat was so tight she was surprised any words could get past it at all. “You’ve _got_ to believe me. I—surely there’s a way you can check? Can’t you perform Legilimency?”

It was so pathetic of her, really, to be offering her mind up like this, to display her vulnerabilities like this. It went against nearly everything she stood for, but she was backed into a corner right now. Dumbledore was absolutely right; he had no reason to believe her. This was precisely what she had been afraid of, but she would not let fear stop her. She would get Dumbledore to believe her if it was the last thing she ever did. Regulus’s freedom depended on it.

Surprise flickered across the old man’s eyes. “If what you claim is true, Miss Potter, and if you truly want my help, then I may have to do just that.” He raised his wand. “Legilimens.”

It was a soft word—but the spell didn’t feel the slightest bit soft. It tore through Grace, bit at her, split her mind clean in two. She buckled under the force of it, gritted her teeth against the pain of it, and let her memories go free.

_She was back at Malfoy Manor._

No, not back, just somewhere between there and not there—she was—

_She was screaming, back arched. Pain wracked every fiber of her being. It felt like every nerve ending in her body was on fire, like the whole of her was ablaze, like she was on the verge of combustion. And just as she was on the brink of complete overload, just as her vision began to tinge and grow dark, it stopped._

_“Do you think me a fool?” You-Know-Who asked. His voice was chilling. It slithered out of his mouth like a snake and crawled up Grace’s spine. _

Memory did nothing to dilute that pain. She could feel it even now. She could feel it tear and rip through her. She didn’t want to revisit that. Anything, any memory but that—

_Grace’s brain was reverberating against her skull. She was slumped on the floor but made the effort to look up. She ground her teeth so hard it was a miracle they didn’t turn to dust. With great effort she rose, legs shaking like a newborn fawn, and looked into You-Know-Who’s crimson eyes._

_“I want to join,” she pleaded. The words fell from her mouth like cinderblocks. “I’m not well-versed in the Dark Arts and I haven’t dueled much. But I can still See. And—and I’m loyal. I swear it. I’m loyal. I wouldn’t betray you for anything.”_

_“For anything?” He sounded almost curious._

_“Yes. Yes—anything.”_

_“What about this?” he said, and cast another Cruciatus._

Something in her rebelled. The hard planes of her mind were already shifting, reforming, trying to cover her up—help her, protect her. It was against her nature to make herself so vulnerable, but it had to be done. This was her last chance. This was the only way to keep her promise to Regulus.

The walls in her mind fell away. She would not hold back anymore. Let Dumbledore see whatever it was he wanted to see. Let him be swallowed whole.

_They were in the Room. Regulus was in a set of crisp black robes. His dark, wavy hair, which had been slick and brushed back so neatly at the start of the night, was mussed and flurried. He was trapped between Grace’s arms, their noses just barely touching. Grace could almost see the breath escape his lips. _

_“Do you understand?” _

_“I’ve always understood you.”_

_“Then you know what I’m going to do.”_

_His face fell. “Please, you can’t—”_

_“I can.”_

_“You shouldn’t.”_

_“You know I’m going to do this,” she told him lowly. “The only question now is whether or not you’ll help me.”_

_Silence settled between them. Grace waited for him to speak. No matter what he said, she knew she would move ahead with this plan. It did not make a difference if he agreed or not. She would still save him. It did not matter if he hated her for this, if he wanted her to stop running after him, if he wanted her to leave him alone. She would still help him. She could not betray him again._

_After what felt like an eon, Regulus spoke: “Of course I’ll help you. I’ll always help you. You won’t be alone. Not like I—” he swallowed down the words and shook his head. “You won’t be alone.”_

_For the first time in months, she breathed easy. _

Memories flickered over each other, warped around one another. There was Regulus, and he was standing and sitting, still and sprinting, smiling and scowling all at once. There was every iteration of him imprinted in her mind—and, tucked within the spaces between now and then, was something else.

_“Fenwick is dead.”_

_A weary sigh escaped him. He leaned forward, the tip of his silvery beard tracing the wood of his desk. “How did you find this out?”_

_“Your spies, of course.” _

_He shut his eyes briefly. “Ah. Anything else?”_

_The woman across from him dug into the pockets of her robes. She pulled out a glass vial. At first glance, it seemed empty. But when he peered harder, he saw the unmistakable shift and sway of silver matter: a memory._

_She slid the vial towards him and her lips—dashed with crimson—spread into a humorless smile. “There has been a prophecy, Albus.”_

It was the third time she had seen a glimpse of the future. She couldn’t quite pin it down. The vision warbled and rippled, like it was nothing more than water. She wanted to follow it further, but it was already slipping. It was already too—

_“I have to show you something.”_

_Regulus reached out his left arm, palm up. The fingers of his right hand, pale and slight, danced at the hem of the sleeve. Slowly, they pulled up, showing the underside of his wrist. The dark material climbed higher and higher, revealing only smooth skin, and then the scaly underside of a tail, and then the curving body of a snake, and then—finally, impossibly—a harsh-lined skull._

_The room was absolutely still. Grace did not know what to do: what to say, how to move, where to look. She was afraid if she did anything at all, speak or breathe, she might propel the moment forward. And she did not want the moment to move forward at all. If anything, she wished fiercely for it to go backward, far back enough that she could find Regulus before any of this had happened and stop him from making such a terrible decision._

_But the purpose of all moments was to lead to the next. And despite the hammering in her heart, she found her voice escaping from her lips: “That’s not… Please tell me that’s not—”_

_“It is.”_

_He stared at the young man across from him with something like sorrow. “I am sorry, but there is no other way.”_

_“I know he’s got a job to do. I know that. It’s just—” He broke off and let out a frustrated breath, running a hand through his already messy hair. _

Grace knew this person. His eyes were bright, golden as the sun. She knew those eyes. She loved them, and the weight of that love made her heart ache.

_“It’s just that we haven’t heard from Remus in a while,” the young man continued._

_“Remus is acting on my orders up north, as you are well aware. There is nothing to be worried about.”_

_“Right…” He nodded jerkily. “I just think Remus ought to come home is all. He’s spent so much time there. I mean—what if they find out? The other werewolves?”_

_“There are contingency plans in place.”_

_“It’s just… We’re worried.”_

_“I assure you that Remus is well and safe.”_

_“How can you be sure of that? Podmore was ambushed just last month. And then we had Death Eaters show up on the McKinnon’s doorstep—despite the fact they moved locations! I mean—it’s not—something’s wrong, sir. You know that.”_

_“I do,” the older man replied solemnly. “If you are here under the suspicion Remus is the leak, I will have you know I have already listened to Sirius’s theories.”_

_“No,” he said immediately. “No—no, it’s not that. It’s that…if anything about Remus’s position were to be revealed… If anything happened to him… He’s so far away. He’s just so far away.”_

_It was the middle of the summer before Grace’s fifth year. Sirius Black stood in the middle of James’s bedroom, his trunk pushed to the side, both hands curled into two tight fists. His grey eyes were steeled and stormy, set into a dangerous glare aimed directly at Grace._

_“Now’s not the time, Grace,” James protested._

_“Yes, it is.” Grace’s gaze didn’t lift from Sirius. “So you weren’t kicked out, you ran away—”_

_“Well, they didn’t exactly try to stop me, did they?” Sirius bit out. “As far as I’m concerned, it was a mutual parting of ways. I’m sure if I stuck around longer, my dear mother would’ve booted me out the front door.”_

_“You left—”_

_“Of bloody course I left—”_

_“No, you pillock! You left Regulus—”_

_Sirius scoffed darkly. “I’m fairly certain he wouldn’t have come even if I asked.”_

_Grace’s eyes narrowed. “What in Merlin’s name is that supposed to mean? You know he hates it there as much as you do.”_

_“Oh, does he now? Does Regulus hate it? When he simpers up to my mother about how—yes—blood traitors are scum and Muggle-borns are the scourge of the earth—”_

_“Stop—”_

_“—and when he cut up all those news articles about Muggle attacks in London and hung them over his bed—”_

_“You don’t—”_

_“—and when he sidles up next to Yaxley and Rosier during those damn pure-blood balls, I’m sure it’s only because he hates it so much, right, Grace?”_

_Grace’s eyes burned. “You don’t understand—”_

_Sirius let out a harsh laugh. “I don’t understand? I think I understand better than anyone here, thank you very much. I’ve been shacked up in that dreadful house for the past sixteen years of my life, and there are two ways it goes, Grace: you turn out like Andy or Bellatrix. Guess which person Regulus has chosen to follow?”_

_“It never occurred to you,” Grace seethed, “that Regulus agreed with your mother and hung up those articles and socialized with Rosier and Yaxley and who all else because he’s afraid of what might happen if he doesn’t?”_

_“Why in Merlin’s name should he be afraid? I did it all first, didn’t I? I tore down the Slytherin hangings from my room. I told my mother and father to sod off whenever they screamed all that blood purist bollocks at me. I—”_

_“Regulus isn’t you! Don’t you get that? Not everyone in the world can be as brave and gallant—”_

_“Grace!” James said. “Let’s leave it for now—”_

_“No!” she cried out. “This is utter bollocks. You left Regulus behind—”_

_“He wouldn’t have wanted to come—”_

_“He would have left if you took him by the hand—”_

_“I can’t always take him by the hand!” Sirius screamed. “I can’t always stand up for him. I can’t always tell him Mother and Father are wrong. He’s got to figure all that shit out himself. I did!”_

_The dark-haired woman across from him sipped her drink slowly. “The Prewetts want to switch shifts again.”_

_A ghost of a smile lurked under his lips. “I very much doubt Alastor will sign off on that.”_

_She cocked her head. “They’ve been getting rather creative with their arguments lately. The last one involved a smuggled ashwinder. I’m not sure how long Moody will hold—”_

_The door to the office banged open. The woman rose like a whip, cloak thrown back, wand out. From the entrance came a man with flurried hair and crooked glasses. His robes were stained with blood._

_“Sir,” he gasped out, scurrying forward. “Sir—I—you’ve got to come to our cottage! Something—something’s happened. It’s my sister—”_

_It was nearly the end of fourth year, and the night before the last Hogsmeade trip of the semester. Grace was at the head of Regulus’s bed, settled deep into his comforter, watching with barely concealed boredom and he hemmed and hawed over the chess set that sat between them._

_It was a new set that his parents had gotten him for his birthday: gold-plated with pieces that gleamed under the light. Regulus had been obsessed with it for months now, and Grace had been unwillingly dragged into this obsession. They were on their fifth or sixth or seventh game now, and it was becoming increasingly obvious that Regulus was quite good at chess. _

_But as good as he was at playing chess, Grace was better at playing people. _

_She had started seriously enough, in the first two games, trying to hinder Regulus from gaining the upper hand, going defensive when she needed to, offensive when she could. But she soon realized the best way to beat Regulus was to lull him into a false sense of security, so she started playing sloppily, moving pieces into open positions, where they were vulnerable to attack for no apparent reason. As the next few games went by, Regulus began hesitating less and less, taking whatever piece Grace laid out, confident that she had no back-up in mind._

_They were now at a point where they had traded most of their major pieces, and now each had only a rook and a queen remaining. Regulus had castled queenside long ago, leaving his king pinned under three pawns. Grace moved her queen opposite Regulus’s defending rook._

_“Grace,” he said exasperatedly, “I’m almost convinced you’re just moving randomly so the game can end and we can do something else.”_

_She fell back against his headboard and said, with a dramatic air to rival Sirius, “You’ve got me, Reg. That was exactly my plan.”_

_He rolled his eyes. “Rook to e5.”_

_His staunch white rook sprinted to the queen, head-butting her off the board. Grace grimaced as the queen was knocked to the floor of the bedroom._

_“Now you haven’t got your queen,” Regulus said almost too smugly._

_“You’re right,” Grace agreed. “Rook to h1.” Her rook traveled to the other end of the board with something of a swagger. Grace smiled at Regulus triumphantly. “Check.”_

_His brows had flown up. “Oh…” he said, softly._

_She raised a brow. “Move?”_

_“Er—rook back to e1?”_

_It was the only move to make, but he was just delaying the inevitable._

_“Rook to e1,” she said instantly. Her piece rammed into Regulus’s. “Checkmate.”_

_He was staring at her with a look she had never quite seen before. It could have been shock, but it wasn’t like Regulus to be so surprised by Grace. She almost always did something completely unexpected. He should be used to her antics by now._

_The funeral was a short, somber affair. It was best to get it over with as speedily as possible. They could not afford any time to grieve. Not now, at least._

_“And what of Avery?”_

_“Fine,” the wizard across from him said gruffly. His glass eye whizzed about in its socket. “It’s only too bad he had to be found out right then and there. We were almost closing in Pettigrew, but now we’ve lost the trail completely. Vance reckons they’ve put him in hiding somewhere.”_

_“Might I offer you a suggestion?”_

_“You can offer all you want, but I doubt I’ll take you up on it.”_

_“You should allow James and Sirius to contribute to this particular mission.”_

_He scoffed. “And let them make a fool of us again?”_

_“Remus will be coming back shortly. With the three of them together, I think you’ll find there is no place on earth Peter could hide.”_

_They were still playing chess. _

_“See?” Grace said, grinning. “It was all part of my big plan that began three games ago. I was playing badly on purpose.” She cocked her head. “Okay, well, the first two games, I was genuinely bad. But the ones before this one, I was even worse on purpose, and—er—are you okay?”_

_He was still staring at her, like the last few minutes hadn’t quite registered with him. _

_Grace was growing a bit concerned. She leaned closer to him, over the chessboard, and said, “What is it?”_

_She barely got the question out when Regulus dipped towards her. It was a sudden, unexpected thing. He pecked his lips against hers—tenderly, awkwardly—and pulled back in something of a daze._

_Grace was still leaned over the board. She stared at Regulus, wide-eyed, a deer caught in headlights. He was still staring at her, with almost the exact same expression._

_She had kissed Davey Gudgeon during a Hogsmeade trip back in October. She hadn’t liked him very much, but he asked her very nicely one day, after Divination, and she had done a tarot reading earlier that told her to be more open to new experiences. So, she went with him. They’d gone to The Three Broomsticks, and then tried to break into the Shrieking Shack, and then, finally, settled by a great pine tree. He’d kissed her, but it had been bland—just the mashing of lips against lips—and Grace wasn’t particularly invested in it._

_But this kiss was different._

_She couldn’t be sure why. Maybe it was because it had been so sudden, without warning or preamble. Maybe it was because she was still coming off the high of having won a chess game. Maybe it was because it was Regulus—sweet, soft Regulus. Her best friend. The only person in the world who knew her as well as she knew herself._

_Her heart felt thick and heavy, like it was waterlogged, like it was swelling in anticipation for something. And her throat was terribly dry, although she couldn’t say why. And her eyes were caught in his, which she’d only just realized were the prettiest shade of silver she’d ever seen. And the room was quite hot, come to think of it. Had it always been this warm?_

_After what might have been one minute or one year, Regulus’s brain came back to him. He blinked wildly, and then burst, “Sorry! Sorry—I don’t know what—I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it. Forget it. I’m sorry.”_

_She didn’t know what to say to that. She didn’t know what to do. Her heart hammered against her chest like a frantic drum. Her palms were sweaty. She’d never felt like this before in her life. _

_“It’s okay,” she assured, although she couldn’t quite meet his eyes. “Er—another game, then?”_

_The walls of the prison were grey and bleak. Under the sparse moonlight, it only seemed more ghostlike. As he walked, his footsteps echoed across the stone floor. At the end of the long stretch of hallway was a single cell—the only cell at this level. He stilled just at the edge of it, wondering, suddenly, if it was too late to turn back._

_“I know you’re there,” a frail, wheezy voice called out._

_It was definitely too late. He swallowed his sigh and pressed forward. Soon, he found his eyes tracing over the iron bars of the cell. There was a thin sleeping cot pushed aside and a bowl of mush left by the grate. He refused to lift his gaze higher than this. _

_“What brings you to my humble abode?” the man within the cell asked with far too much cheer in his voice._

_“I have come to ask if you would like to be moved.”_

_“Moved?” Surprise colored the word. “You came all this way—after thirty-five years—to ask if I’d like a change of scenery?”_

_“Yes.”_

_He laughed, and it was a high, chilling thing._

_“Voldemort is searching for the Elder Wand. He will be paying you a visit shortly. It is likely you will not survive the encounter.” Reluctantly, he found his eyes lifting. He traced over the prisoner’s hunched, sullen form. The grey of his prison robes were tattered and worn. His skin was pale, waxy, and taut over his bones. He did not seem to particularly care about what his visitor had to say. “You already knew all this, didn’t you?”_

_“I’m surprised you even came,” he sighed after a long moment. “I doubt changing my prison will stop him from finding me.”_

_“Perhaps, but I still had to try.”_

_He twisted around in his small cell. His eyes were pale as snowdrops. His lips were curled into a terrible scowl. “Why?” he spat. “Why try? Why come here at all? Was it truly to prevent my death—or to convince me not to give you away?”_

_“If Voldemort finds you, you are free to tell him anything you want.”_

_“Why?” he repeated, voice morphing from vexed to desperate. “Why come here? Why torment me like this?”_

_“You know me best, Gellert. You know why.”_

_It was third year. Grace was at the Spring Soirée, or whatever was left of it. The Great Hall was practically deserted except for some loitering students, curious as to exactly what happened. The nice, colorful banner the committee had made was now burnt to a crisp. Professor Flitwick was trying to revert the scorched ceiling back to its original state._

_“You didn’t get hurt, did you?” James had found his way to her. His hands were blistered._

_Grace ignored him, sipping at her punch._

_“We didn’t mean for it to get so out of hand,” James tried. He scratched the back of his head. “Merlin—who would’ve thought fire crabs were that difficult to control?”_

_Grace set down her drink a little too hard. The punch sloshed over the rim. “Who would think to bring fire crabs to a dance at all, James? What in Merlin’s name possessed you and Sirius to do that?”_

_“We thought it would be funny.”_

_“You—I—” Grace let out a vicious stream of expletives._

_James winced. “Merlin, Grace! It’s not like anything happened to you!”_

_“Regulus is in the Hospital Wing, you dolt.”_

_James froze. “Oh—I suppose that’s where Sirius went off to.”_

_“I hope McGonagall gave you a term’s worth of detentions.”_

_“I’ll be serving them into the beginning of next year,” James sighed._

_“Good.”_

_“I’m beginning to think this wasn’t such a good idea.” James surveyed the Great Hall. The last of the fire crabs had been caught by the groundskeeper, Hagrid, but the damages were still extant. “They’re cancelling the Spring Ball now. Permanently.” James rubbed a hand over his face. “Everyone’s angry about it—and the fire crabs, I suppose. I’ve already received three Howlers.”_

_“Good,” Grace said again. “You’ll be receiving three more from me tomorrow.”_

_A beat passed, and then James said, “Sorry.”_

_“You’re going to go to the Hospital Wing when Regulus is conscious and apologize to him. You’re also going to get him a deluxe Honeydukes package and the latest edition of _Meddling with Manticores_.”_

_“Sounds fair.”_

_“I’m also telling Mum and Dad—”_

_“Now hold on—”_

He was still rooting around, still digging. The memories were flicking by faster than ever. Grace was not sure that there was anything else left to see.

_Grace was sprinting into the library, and just narrowly managed to avoid Pince’s keen gaze by ducking behind the nearest stack of books. She lurked around the shelves for a few minutes, poking her head out now and again, trying to spot a familiar mop of neatly curled dark hair._

_She found her target at the very end of the library, in a comfortable nook where few students roamed. She bounded forward until she was right behind him, and covered his eyes with her hands._

_“Happy birthday!”_

_Regulus’s whole body tensed—and then relaxed. He set his quill down and let out a lengthy sigh. “Grace, do we have to do this every time?”_

_“Yes,” she chirped merrily, releasing her hold on him. She settled down in the chair opposite his and grinned. “Guess what present I got you this year.”_

_His eyes narrowed at her. “If it’s nundu saliva or chimaera fur or—or any illegally procured potions ingredient, I will take away points—”_

_She rolled her eyes. “No, you won’t.”_

_“I will,” he protested firmly. “I absolutely will.”_

_“You won’t, because I’m your best—”_

_“Where is the diary?”_

_“Lupin handed it over to Moody as soon as they got back.” The dark-haired witch stared at him unsurely. “Do you…do you know how to get rid of a thing like that? Moody's been keeping it in an enchanted safe, but it’s not enough to just keep it away, right? We ought to destroy it.”_

_“It will be destroyed,” he promised quietly._

_“I’m going to murder him,” Grace muttered ferociously, arms crossed tightly over her chest. She glared darkly into the distance. “You hadn’t even seen the Snitch yet! Who does he think he is? Knocking Bludgers into you like—”_

_“It happens.” Regulus was hoisted up on the hospital cot, tenderly prodding his right arm. _

_“—like he’s—like he’s the bloody King of Beaters or something! And I can’t believe Hooch let him get away with that. What in Merlin’s name was she thinking?!”_

_He shrugged. “It’s not technically a foul.”_

_“It is in my book. I’m going to get him back for it. He can’t do that—not to my best—”_

_“Apparently, he entrusted something to the Lestranges earlier this year.”_

_The slight young wizard opposite him let out a low groan. “Oh, you’re not talking about those old relics, are you?”_

_The deliberating came to a halt. All members of the small room, a dozen hard-bitten wizards and witches, turned towards the source of the voice._

_He leaned forward with interest. “Relics?”_

_“He gave one of them to Bellatrix—as a gift, I think.”_

_“What was it?”_

_“Nothing special. A golden cup.”_

_“You didn’t have to do that,” Grace said quietly._

_Regulus looked up from his scrubbing and—despite the grime on his hands and the thin sheen of sweat collecting across his forehead—smiled gently. “It’s okay.”_

_“It’s not. Give me that.” She reached for the brush, but he deftly kept out of her way. “Let me help you.”_

_“It’s okay,” he said again, and the soft look in his eye refused to disappear. “It’s only one detention. It won’t kill me.”_

_“But it’s my fault. You shouldn’t—”_

_“I don’t mind, not if it’s for you. You’re my best—”_

_He walked along a twisting path that led into the heart of the wood. Amidst the tangle of knotted trunks and scraggly branches, he could just make out a rundown shack._

_“I always held high hopes for you,” he said quietly._

_His younger companion grit his teeth. “Don’t pretend you understand me.”_

_“I am not pretending.” His blue eyes lifted skyward. “I loved a man, too, once…”_

_The Tonks home was very warm. There were apple tarts cooling on the kitchen countertop, and the smell of cinnamon wormed its way into Grace’s nose. She found herself settling deeper in the lumpy, secondhand couch. The mug of tea in her hands was so hot the ceramic was beginning to blister her fingers._

_“I didn’t call you over just to warn you,” Andromeda said. Her voice had grown tight and drawn. “It’s more like…I’ve got a favor to ask. As I’ve said…something’s coming. And I’m afraid that those of my family—my sisters and my cousins—will get pulled into it. Bella—” Andromeda hesitated, “—might be beyond saving, and I’ve been writing to Cissy…but she hasn’t been responding.”_

_Grace’s legs swayed over the edge of the enormous couch. Her brows knitted in confusion. “What do you want me to do exactly?”_

_It took a moment for Andromeda to respond. She sighed and pushed aside her mess of dark curls. “Just…look out for Regulus,” she managed after a moment. “Sirius will be fine, I think. But it’s Regulus I’m worried about the most. He’s the youngest, and he’s always been the most impressionable...and, in Slytherin, good influences are hard to come by.”_

_Grace smiled. “Sure,” she said easily. “Regulus is my best—” _

_They were back in the prison—or perhaps they had never left. The moon climbed high above the arches of the castle._

_“We don’t know each other anymore, Albus. Not really.”_

_“Maybe—but we still know each other better than anyone else.”_

_“All I know is that I hate you.”_

_“Yes,” he agreed softly. Only deep love could inspire hate like this. “I don’t blame you.”_

_“You’ve been an absolutely miserable, wretched best—”_

_“—friend.”_

Grace gasped back to the present, head ringing. Her knuckles were white from the grip she had on her chair. Her gaze flitted around Dumbledore’s office, unsure, for a moment, as to where she was. The reality of the situation came back to her quickly, flooding her. Grace’s eyes stung, and it was only when she rubbed at them that she realized a couple of tears had managed to leak through.

Dumbledore’s hands were steepled on top of his desk.

“So?” Grace pressed, hyperaware of the seconds ticking by, of Regulus sequestered in the Room, pacing himself into the ground.

True to his infuriatingly slippery nature, Dumbledore answered with another question: “Would you believe,” he began very slowly, “that I had it in mind to call you up to my office near the end of the term to ask you to do this very thing?”

All of Grace’s panicked, desperate thoughts came to a screeching halt. Despite the knife-sharp tension that shrouded the room moments ago, she found herself feeling oddly pleased by this. She had never thought herself to be so noticed among the professors of Hogwarts; James had always commanded that spotlight for himself.

“Really?” she said in disbelief.

“Yes. I believe James let it slip that I often ask promising students to aid with the war effort. I had several conversations with Dirk Cresswell, in fact, on the matter. Unfortunately—or, perhaps, with stunning shrewdness—he saw my request as a sign that the war effort was not going in our favor, and decided it was time to take to hiding.” Dumbledore looked steadily at Grace. “It is no secret the Ministry is losing this war; that is part of the reason I began the Order of the Phoenix. But we have been bogged down by assault after assault. We have been in need of a spy to place amongst Voldemort’s fold for some time now. None of our current Order members are up to the task. Too many of them have illustrious careers fighting against exactly what Voldemort stands for, and the rest simply do not have the right background. I thought you might have been able to do it, a pure-blood Slytherin with a golden heart, but now I know you could have only done it on your own. You could have only succeeded on your own—and you did.” A disbelieving amusement cloaked his features. “Your plan worked, Miss Potter, because you did not wish to spy for our side out of duty or glory. You entered Voldemort’s fold for love. Your plan was drenched with your love, and this is why Voldemort did not find you out. He could not bear the brunt of such love, and so he did not see any detail of your plan. He was only able to surmise you joined for Mr. Black and deemed you foolish for it.” Dumbledore peered at her through his half-moon spectacles. “Of course, you are anything but. Congratulations, Miss Potter, you are the first to successfully infiltrate Voldemort’s ranks.”

“Er—thanks,” she said.

“Oh, and apologies for the Legilimency,” he added. “I had to be certain you had not fallen prey to Voldemort’s doctrine.”

“It’s okay…?” she said. “So—is that it? We’re in?”

Dumbledore’s brows lifted. “We?”

Her heart thudded against her chest. “Regulus and me.”

Sorrow clouded Dumbledore’s face. “I’m sorry, Miss Potter, but I don’t know what sort of sympathies Mr. Black holds—”

“He didn’t want to join either. You _saw_ that. You saw that in my head! He’d been forced into it by his mum, not because he _actually_ wanted to join You-Know-Who.”

“And, when it comes down to it, could Mr. Black be forced into betraying us at the behest of his mother? What you are endeavoring to do is not for the faint-hearted—”

“Regulus is _not_ faint-hearted—”

“That may be so, but—”

“You’re doing it again,” Grace said. Her voice was hard. Panicked, even. There was a wild edge to it, like her words might bite if they had teeth. “You’re underestimating him. You didn’t think he was a Death Eater all this while because he lacked nerve—but he doesn’t. He’s got plenty of nerve.”

“I have no need for two spies when one will do.”

“It’s two or none.”

A long, steely silence followed. Grace looked at Dumbledore with a sort of burning wrath. At last, the old wizard folded. He was not in a position to refuse.

“I will speak to Mr. Black,” he said. “If his mindset falls in line with that of the Order and if he agrees, I will let him in.”

It was as though a weight had been lifted from Grace. She collapsed into the back of her chair and let out a breath. “All right. Now what? Do we have to go to meetings?”

“Professor Vance is a member of the Order,” Dumbledore explained. “You will meet with her once a week under the guise of remedial Defense Against—”

“_Remedial_—” Grace began, but Dumbledore gave her a look so severe that she swallowed her words instantly and clamped her lips shut. She supposed, when it all came down to it, it was better to have students think she was taking a few remedial classes instead of being shipped directly to Azkaban. “Er—sorry, go on.”

“During these extra sessions with Vance, you will pass along what you’ve learned. I will also have Vance teach you to remain discreet and inconspicuous, so you do not arouse suspicion amongst Voldemort’s ilk. I will do the same with Mr. Black under the guise of Head Boy meetings.”

“Okay,” Grace agreed. “And what about the rest of the Order? When do we meet them?”

He stared at her for a moment. “This sort of work isn’t one the Order is affiliated with, in part because no one has been able to ingratiate themselves with Voldemort. There is no fight in this line of work. There is no company. Subterfuge is a slow, quiet thing. By the time it will be celebrated, if ever, it will have been over for a very long time. What I am trying to say, Miss Potter, is that no one will know.”

“Right, well, of course no one outside the Order will know—”

“No, I mean no one beyond you, me, Professor Vance, and Mr. Black will know about this. Vance and I believe that information from the Order is being leaked. We do not who, or how many, are responsible for this. It is in your best interest to have your position as a spy remain secret until the war is over. I must have your agreement on this. No one can know.” He eyed her very carefully. “Not even James.”

The way he said it surprised her. _Not even James._ Like it was a secret, something swept under the rug, hushed and hidden. Like it was blasphemy to even think about excluding James. Perhaps it was, in its own way. In the years she had spent by James’s side, she had never known him to be sidelined. It almost felt like betrayal—to keep him away, in the dark. It almost felt like retaliation.

She nodded in agreement. “Not even James.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you so much for the kudos and comments. They’re a joy to read! Keep letting me know what you think.


	16. Rasp

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grace is given an order she cannot fulfill.

“How many battles have you fought, Potter?”

“Er—none…?”

“You mean to tell me every time something didn’t go your way, every time someone said something you disliked, every time the world seemed hellbent on stopping you from reaching your goal—you just gave in?”

“Well, no—”

“Precisely. You’ve fought before, Potter. You’ve fought with words. Perhaps even with spells. You’re the sort of person who’s got fire for blood. Fighting comes as naturally as breathing. If you were a trainee of mine for the Auror Department or the Order, I’d say that would be a boon. But, as it happens, you’re not training for a battle. You’re not training to spar. You’re training to _spy_. The only thing those two have in common is endurance. But where sparring relies on the endurance of the body, spying relies on the endurance of the mind. You will see things you cannot unsee, Potter. You will see people tortured. You will see people killed. You will see yourself, too, watching all this unfold—and doing nothing to help. Because the job of a spy is not to help. It is to stay quiet and look on while your enemy laughs in your face. Do you understand me?”

Vance was sat primly on the edge of her desk, one leg folded over the other. She raised one neat brow in Grace’s direction. Grace stared back at her wearily, unsure of what to say. She had only just arrived five minutes ago.

“Yeah…” Grace said slowly.

Vance’s crimson-dashed lips spread into a sharp smile. She hefted herself off the desk and strode forward. “Good. We’ll begin today’s session with what information you’ve learned. I’m not certain what sort of standing you have amongst Voldemort’s Death Eaters, but any information you’ve found out, no matter how insignificant, will be useful.” 

“Right, well, I’ve only been to one meeting,” Grace started, pulling out a small scroll from her knapsack. “I learned a ton there, but there’s more Regulus knows. He made a list for Dumbledore, and I have my own for you—”

Vance’s brows lifted incredulously. “You _wrote down_ what you heard?”

Grace smoothed out the parchment in front of her. “Er—yeah, Reg and I were going over what we remembered. We wanted to make sure we didn’t leave anything out. I charmed it to make sure anyone else would only see my Transfiguration essay.”

“That may be so, Potter, but charms can be undone. Writing is dangerous in your line of work. Writing can be discovered and deciphered by those working against you. You must learn to memorize what you need to tell.”

“I mean, I suppose, but it’s a lot to remember…”

“Then you must work hard to remember it,” Vance said sternly. “Or you can just as easily pass on the memory of the event.”

“I don’t know that spell,” Grace said rather pointedly.

“We’ll go over it later,” Vance dismissed. “For now, let us begin with the information you’ve recovered.”

Grace’s gaze traveled down to the sheet of paper. She began to recite all that was covered at the single meeting she attended. She started, first, with what You-Know-Who had already accomplished. He had a great wealth of spies in the Ministry: followers that had infiltrated the Department of Mysteries and the Wizengamot long, long ago. He held a great grudge against the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, currently headed under the strict and august Bartemius Crouch Snr., who was quickly rounding up Death Eaters, and was angling to rid himself of both Crouch and the current Head Auror, Howard Atkinson. With Crouch, they had not yet formed any sort of concrete plan beyond attempting to get his son to murder his father for them. With the Head Auror, however, a date had already been set.

“Yes, we know already,” Vance said, nodding along. “Many of the Death Eaters we know have a sort of image to uphold, families like the Rosiers and Malfoys, for instance. We learned long ago that they don’t bother with more menial tasks like shadowing targets; they pay or threaten petty criminals to go about it for them, people who wouldn’t garner attention. We caught one of them a while back and found Voldemort was planning on ambushing Atkinson at his residence at the end of the month. Naturally, we’re preparing our own guard to protect Atkinson on the night in question.”

“Right, but he knows that. You-Know-Who found that out. He knows what the Order’s been up to. He knows you have patrols to protect the communities he tends to target, and he knows that you’ve been following some of his Death Eaters, too. I dunno how he knows it, but he does. It’s always Lestrange—Rabastan Lestrange—who brings up information about the Order. Regulus reckons he’s got some sort of informant in the Order.”

Vance didn’t say anything for a long moment. She clasped her hands tightly and began to pace across the room. Grace watched her warily. 

“You said Rabastan, correct? The younger one?”

“Yeah.”

“Damn,” she said, settling back on the edge of her desk. “If it had been Rodolphus, it might not have been so clear. But Rabastan… Podmore was in his year, I think. He mentioned it. Maybe Fenwick, too; they’re around the same age. Perhaps even the Prewetts—”

“Prewetts?” Grace repeated, bewildered. “You mean Gideon and Fabian?”

Vance eyed her strangely. “You’ve met them?”

“Yeah, back in first year. We had Divination together. I don’t think they knew Rabastan Lestrange. Even if they did, I doubt they’d have got on.”

“I doubt that, too,” Vance acknowledged, “but appearances can be deceiving. I don’t know any Order member who would willingly give Lestrange information about our activities, and yet someone is.” 

“There’s a trick Slytherins do sometimes,” Grace said, “to find out which of their friends are true. They’ll give each of their friends an embarrassing secret—fake, of course—and whichever one makes it out of the circle as a rumor, well, that’s the one who’s disloyal.”

“Yes, we’ve tried something like that—given false information to a few of the more suspect members. Nothing came of it. The problem is that our operations rely on cohesiveness and unity; misinformation is very quickly found out and corrected. Our guess is that any false information we gave out was shared and corrected by another Order member. It actually created some confusion for a short while. We haven’t dared try it again in case the leak gets suspicious.”

“Right,” Grace nodded. “Well, I dunno how many of you there are, but maybe you could narrow it down to a few and call them in one-by-one and sort of scare them? Maybe hint that you know they’re spying for You-Know-Who, and whoever reacts poorly is probably the person you’re looking for.”

“That sort of tactic assumes the spy in question isn’t trained in the slightest. It’s a professional we’re dealing with. I doubt they’d let anything slip if I brought them in for questioning, and—” Vance stopped suddenly and looked at Grace with a hint of exasperation, “—I shouldn’t really be discussing any of this with you. It’s not at all relevant to what you have to accomplish.”

“It could be,” Grace argued. “The leak is probably a Death Eater, right? What if they show up to a meeting one day?”

“I doubt it. Voldemort and Rabastan Lestrange seem to have gone to great lengths to keep this quiet from the rest of you. That, already, is a troubling sign; they may think someone amongst their fold is capable of revealing their informant’s identity.”

“Or maybe they’re just embarrassed.”

Vance raised a brow. “_Embarrassed_?”

“They’re all such hoity-toity pure-bloods. Maybe their informant is Muggle-born or something—”

“A _Muggle-born_ conspiring with a group of _pure-blood supremacists_?”

“—or, you know, a half-blood—”

“Somewhat more reasonable.”

“—and they’re embarrassed about telling the others that they have to rely on someone like that for information about the Order.”

“It’s not entirely out of the realm of possibility,” Vance acknowledged, although she didn’t seem very convinced. “But enough about this, Potter. It’s Voldemort’s business that’s your primary concern at the moment, not the Order’s.”

“Yeah, sure,” Grace said, glancing down at her scroll of parchment. “There was the Head Auror thing, and then—” her eyes caught onto Greyback’s name and she swallowed thickly, “—he mentioned Greyback. Fenrir Greyback, the werewolf. He wanted to ally with him.”

Vance didn’t seem particularly surprised. “Yes, we’ve long suspected he would try to gain the support of dark or outcast creatures. We’ve already gotten news that he’s reached out to Greyback. It appears Greyback is ready to accept.”

Her mouth went dry. “R—really?”

“Is it so surprising?” Vance questioned. “They’re united by a common goal.”

“It’s just… He asked me about Greyback. He asked me how to get Greyback’s support—and I didn’t tell him, because I thought maybe it would stop that from happening, but…” Shame and regret drenched her. So, she had done that for nothing? Regulus had been tortured for nothing?”

“Ah, yes,” Vance nodded. “Albus mentioned you had been brought on as a Seer.”

“Yeah,” she croaked. “Er—I’ve sort of been doing a bad job at it, though. He asked me how to convince Greyback to join him, and I read my tarot cards, and I got the answer. But I didn’t know what to say to him, so I didn’t say anything at all, and… Well, he wasn’t very pleased.”

“You were doing the best you could with what you knew,” Vance assured softly. “But now you will know much, much more. We can use your position as a Seer to our advantage. We can use it to lure his Death Eaters into traps. We can use it to lull him into a false sense of security. We’ll cobble together some ‘predictions’ you could give him—and if it’s necessary to give him the truth now and again, we can give some harmless ones.”

“All right,” Grace agreed. A sense of relief washed over her. She would not be doing this alone any longer.

“Is there anything else on your list?”

She looked back at her writing. “That was the last thing I had. Regulus has a lot more, since he’s been there since the summer, but I suppose he’s telling Dumbledore right now.”

“What about anything you’ve heard from the Death Eaters in Hogwarts? We know that Magnus Rosier’s cousin and uncle—Evan and Luca—are high-ranking Death Eaters. Has he ever mentioned anything about what they’re up to?”

“Er—no, we don’t really talk much…” Grace watched a shadow of disappointment cross over Vance’s face, and she quickly backtracked. “But I could always find out. His sister—Myrcella—has been sort of friendly recently. I might be able to talk to her?”

As soon as she said it, she regretted it. She and Myrcella had not exactly had very many peaceable conversations with each other in their seven years at Hogwarts. It would be very difficult to convince Myrcella to warm up to her now—especially after she had so aggressively turned away the olive branch Myrcella offered the morning after the Hogsmeade scare. But if it was what the Order needed, who was she to protest? Grace would have to suck it up and simply endure Myrcella’s boorish behavior. It would be worth it in the end. Hopefully.

“That would be a start,” Vance said appreciatively. “I’d recommend trying to spend as much time around the other Death Eaters here as well: Yaxley, Gibbon, and Snyde are the other ones Dumbledore mentioned to me. You needn’t make active conversation with them. I suspect they’ll drop information completely unprompted in their own course.”

“Probably. They do talk an awful lot.”

“Excellent.” Vance’s sharp gaze glanced down to the roll of parchment. “Now that you’ve relayed everything and we’ve set some action items for you to complete, how about you toss that into the fireplace?”

Grace’s hands curled over the parchment protectively. “Into the fireplace?” she repeated incredulously.

“We can’t risk your list falling into someone’s hands.”

“Yes, but—”

“Don’t worry,” Vance said. “I’ve got it all in here.” She tapped a finger against her temple.

Grace shot her an unsure look but left her seat all the same, striding towards the fireplace at the back of Vance’s office. There was a low flame flaring over a large pile of ash. Evidently, Vance burned quite a lot of things. Grace cast her parchment into the fire and watched, quite forlornly, as the paper curled and crumbled away.

“All right,” Vance said, clapping her hands together. She rose and flicked back her robes, letting the dark material swish over the floor. She brandished her wand, a sleek rod of white aspen, in the air and stepped forward. “Shall we duel now?”

Grace stared at her, mouth partially agape. She reached into her pocket, fingers fumbling over her own wand. “I—I’m sorry, _what_?”

“Normally, I would discuss what sort of information you’re free to pawn off to Voldemort and his lot in order to stay in their good graces—but we’ve already discussed quite a lot today. It would be best if we move on to perfecting your practical skills.”

“But you said the job of a spy wasn’t to _duel_! It’s to—it’s to—” she struggled to remember the long speech Vance recited at the beginning of the session, which now seemed to have been ages ago, “—_listen_ and _observe_—”

“I said no such thing,” Vance countered immediately. “I said the job of a spy is to stay quiet and look on while your enemy laughs in your face. It is vitally important you remember this.”

“Right, okay, but you also said I wouldn’t be dueling,” Grace spluttered. “You said something about the endurance of the mind.”

“We’ll work on that, too,” Vance assured, “but I do need to assess your skills and how likely you are to stand in a fight against Voldemort or his Death Eaters—”

“Why would that happen?! Aren’t I just _spying_?”

“If all goes well, you will never be put in a situation where you will have to duel Death Eaters. But if your cover is blown, you will no longer be a spy, and you may have to fight your way out. This is a very real possibility for you, and so we must be prepared.” Vance widened her stance. “Are you ready?”

Grace matched Vance’s posture sloppily. Her silver lime wand glinted under the light of the hearth. “Er—I suppose…”

Vance jabbed her wand forward, and a dash of red light erupted from the end. Grace, who had been expecting Vance to cast spells verbally, realized a second too late that the duel had begun and ducked to the ground to avoid the spell instead of casting a shield.

“Very good,” Vance complimented. “We usually have to break trainees out of the desire to counterspell every hex that comes their way. The environment you’re in plays just as big a part in dueling as the spells do.”

Grace flung her hand out, craning her neck to aim for Vance. “Stupefy!”

Vance blocked the spell easily. “A passable attempt. It would be best to cast nonverbally. It catches your opponent by surprise.”

“I don’t know how to duel nonverbally! We weren’t taught!”

Another jet of red light burst from Vance’s wand. Grace rolled behind the desk, which was blown apart as soon as the spell hit it.

“Really?” Vance said, seeming somewhat surprised. “I suppose your Defense professor is to blame for that.”

“_You’re_ my Defense professor!”

They went back and forth like this for another hour: Vance offering corrections and tips while Grace made a few biting remarks about how much better she would be at dueling if only a certain professor taught something _other_ than the Patronus Charm in class. Vance took these few criticisms in stride, much to Grace’s relief since she was by no means winning their duel and her rude remarks were the only way she could relieve her pent-up frustration. Their session together ended with Vance’s office partially destroyed. One wall was completely covered in scorch marks. The standard-issue desk, chairs, and bookshelves—although empty apart for a few stray tomes and ink pots—had been blasted into smithereens. A blasting spell into the fireplace had sent ash and soot flying over the entire room, covering not only the furniture but Grace and Vance themselves. Despite the destruction and exhaustion, Grace found herself feeling as though the time had been spent well. She was already familiar with casting nonverbal charms (something Flitwick had begun to teach at the end of sixth year) and found herself copying the technique to some of the hexes and jinxes towards the end of the duel out of pure desperation. To her surprise, and Vance’s delight, it had worked for some of the less complex dueling spells; she only had to practice to apply the technique to her dueling style as a whole.

They cleaned up the office as best they could (mostly by repairing the broken fixtures and leaving the mess of dust and cinders for Filch to clean later), and Grace was finally allowed to take her leave—but not before one final speech from Vance recapping all they had learned today and precisely what they would cover next time. Head ringing, Grace began to make her way from Vance’s office to the Come-and-Go Room, where she was supposed to meet with Regulus. Dumbledore had decided to divide time between the Head Boy and Head Girl, hosting two separate meetings so each could “voice any complaints they had about the other,” while putting the joint meeting under the purview of McGonagall. The truth, of course, was that Dumbledore had been struggling to find a way to meet regularly with Regulus without inciting suspicion, and this was the best he could come up with.

Regulus was already in the Room when she arrived. He was drawn into himself on a long couch, seeming more jittery than usual. He glanced up when he heard Grace enter and did a double-take when he saw the grime she was covered in. He was by her side in a minute. His wand traced over her. After about a dozen Scouring Charms, her robes seemed cleaner than they had been when she first bought them.

“What on earth happened to you?” he asked as she settled onto the couch. “Where did you go?”

“Nowhere,” she assured. “It was just that the fireplace exploded, so all the dust and whatnot got everywhere—”

He looked aghast. “Why did the fireplace _explode_?”

“We were dueling. For practice. Vance said it would be useful in case I ever got caught.” She leaned into the back of the couch and cracked her neck, relaxing as her body loosened up. “Good Godric, it was mental. The whole two hours. Vance is _extremely_ demanding—worse than how she is in class. To be fair, I did learn a lot. I just wish I’d been learning it since the start of the year instead of _now_.” She looked up at Regulus, who, judging by the pristine state of his robes, hadn’t gone through a similar bout of dueling with Dumbledore. “What about you? Did Dumbledore do anything interesting?”

He tensed slightly and pulled out a wrapped caramel candy from his pockets. He rolled it pensively between his fingers. Grace’s gaze flickered down to the hard candy, then back up to his surprisingly agitated face, and then back to the candy.

“He…gave you…some candy?” she pieced together slowly, wondering if she was missing something here.

Normally, she would have asked why in Merlin’s name Dumbledore was showering Regulus with candy while Vance was dueling her to death—but the atmosphere surrounding Regulus was so fretful and uneasy that she was beginning to think that Dumbledore had been very rude to Regulus and the candy he was holding was actually poisoned. Grace eased up on the sofa, her worry now peaking to match Regulus’s. She had thought, after seeing Regulus through her eyes, Dumbledore would be understanding, but perhaps that hadn’t been the case.

Regulus ducked his head. “I think it was more out of—er—well, the candy was sort of like an apology—”

“An apology?”

A faint pink dusted over Regulus’s cheeks. “He performed Legilimency on me. And, well, I was prepared for that, you know. Since you told me. And I suppose since I was thinking about what we discussed, I just started thinking about _you_—and it wasn’t—it was inadvertent, obviously, but he saw a glimpse of when we—”

She blanched. “No, Regulus, don’t tell me—”

“—were in the Room after your tiff with your brother—”

“_Regulus!_”

“I’m sorry,” he said immediately, face drawn into a pitiful expression. “I didn’t mean to. My mind just went there, and I tried to _stop_ thinking about it, but that just made me think about it more, and—oh, Merlin…” He buried his face in his hands.

Grace felt compelled to do the same. She wasn’t sure if she could look Dumbledore in the eye ever again. “He only saw a glimpse, right?” she said unsurely, trying to find some silver lining. “Did he just…ignore it or…? Did he—just what did he do, exactly?”

“He immediately withdrew from my mind,” Regulus said. His voice was slightly muffled through his hands. “And we sort of just stared at each other. And then I apologized. And he said it was fine. And then, er, we stared at each other some more. And then I suppose he decided it might be better to just administer me some Veritaserum and have a conversation with me—”

“Merlin’s fucking—are you _still_ on the Veritaserum, Regulus?”

He lifted his head and looked at her. “You know what, now that you mention it, that would explain why I’m not even making the effort to hide what happened.”

She almost made a quip about how using Veritaserum outside of the Wizengamot _must_ be illegal, but she quickly remembered that she and Regulus had been traipsing far beyond the boundary of what was legal for quite some time now. She sighed deeply and threw her head back against the sofa. Her eyes wandered up towards the ceiling. The hazy light of the hearth cast a slew of dancing shadows across the stone.

“Well, if he just sat you down and talked to you for two hours after that, he can’t have been too bothered,” she thought out loud. “He’s been at this school for ages now. He’s probably stumbled upon much worse. And in person.”

“Yes, but it was still absolutely mortifying,” Regulus said mournfully. “And I’d been so intent on making a good impression… Not that it could have been _too_ good, seeing as we began the meeting with me showing him my Dark Mark, but still…”

She snorted softly and turned her head over to him. Her hand reached out for his. “It doesn’t matter if you make a good impression or not. He needs you.”

“He needs _one_ of us,” Regulus corrected.

“No—he needs _you_. He needs to be on _your_ good side, not the other way around. Because if he’s not, then he’s not on _my_ good side, and that will _not_ bode well for his Order.”

Regulus’s lips ticked into a gentle, half-smile.

“And, honestly,” she continued, leaning into him, “Dumbledore will probably just extract that whole encounter from his head and destroy the memory.”

“If he doesn’t, I might do it for him.”

His tone was so serious and the situation was so ridiculous that Grace couldn’t help but laugh. Full and bright, the laughter simply bubbled out of her. When she finished, she found Regulus gazing down with her with a look so tender it just about made her heart stutter.

“What is it?”

“I love it when you laugh. I’ve made more jokes around you than I have around anyone else hoping you might laugh. I wish I could carry the sound with me and listen to it whenever I miss you.”

She thought she might melt from the affection dripping from his voice. She shook her head in disbelief. “Veritaserum doesn’t _compel_ you to reveal secrets.”

“That’s not Veritaserum. That’s just me.”

She ached with fondness. Her chest was full and warm and light. A bone-deep love sank into her.

“Sweet Circe—come here,” she said and crashed her lips against his.

* * *

As the month dwindled to an end, Grace settled into something of a rhythm. Her days were now spent juggling classes and homework, sitting beside Myrcella Rosier during meals (they had entered a tentative, shaky acquaintance after Grace bent her pride and offered an apology), and memorizing copious amounts of information about the Order’s operations. She had been very excited to join Vance and Dumbledore on their quiet but determined quest to undermine You-Know-Who, not necessarily because she would finally find some legitimacy in what she was doing but because she ached for some sense of stability and order. The new year had started on a particularly sour note, and it had only continued to curdle. She was looking forward to no longer being worried, to having someone else worry for her, to simply _do_ and be done with it.

But she found that her newfound safety was painfully boring. Most days, her espionage seemed more of an extracurricular class than a real, tangible effort to end the war. She threw some effort into her classes, but she wasn’t very interested in scrawling notes about cross-species transfiguration or nonverbal charmwork, much to Slughorn’s growing dismay. She thought she would be able to endure Myrcella’s company because it had been something Vance asked her to do, but, truthfully, her resolve was slowly slipping away. She spent nearly all her meals at Myrcella’s side, hoping this show of loyalty might convince her to confide in Grace about her cousin and uncle’s pursuits—but, so far, she had nothing to show of it. (Most of her time with Myrcella was wasted on empty gossip and scathing criticisms about the Ministry.) The late-night sessions with Vance _should_ have been more interesting, but the majority of the time was eaten up going over new information about Death Eater activity and what sort of tidbits Grace could feed to You-Know-Who about the Order if asked. Due to Vance’s ‘no paper’ rule, Grace frequently found herself reviewing material from previous sessions in a manner so studious and determined it surprised even herself. Regulus, who was used to this sort of rigor from his obsessive study routine for O.W.L.s and N.E.W.T.s, took to this particular flavor of espionage like a fish to water, but Grace ached for something more dynamic. Despite her protests, she enjoyed dueling with Vance at the end of their sessions, but the chances of ever applying those skills were slim to none.

She flounced into the Come-and-Go Room after a particularly tiring hour of dueling (she was beginning to wonder if the constant memorization was having some sort of effect on her nonverbal spellcasting, because she had been performing worse than usual this past week) and shrugged off her invisibility cloak. The Room had produced a bed as soon as she entered, and she splayed out over the sheets, sighing in comfort as she sunk into the soft mattress. She had knocked into Vance’s bookcase while trying to dodge a spell, and her shoulder still didn’t feel quite right.

“More dueling?” Regulus asked.

He was at a little library section the Room had conjured up for him, hunched over a table with his leather-bound notebook, a quill, and an inkpot. Dumbledore, to Grace’s irritation, had charmed Regulus’s notebook so that the contents would be unreadable to anyone but the owner. Apparently, unlike Vance, he held no worries about charms being broken or reversed.

“Yeah,” she groaned, sliding up the bed to get into a more comfortable position. She cupped a pillow in her hands and hugged it tightly against her chest. “Did you finish your notes?”

“I’m almost done,” he promised. The end of his owl feather quill bobbed furiously in the air as his hand fled over the paper. “You can keep talking, though.”

“I don’t really have anything to say. It was sort of just a run-of-the-mill night—except I almost got caught by Filch on my way here. He saw a part of my hand through the invisibility cloak. I think the charm on it is starting to wear off.”

Regulus didn’t look up from his writing, but she could tell he was listening. “Yeah,” he nodded. “Mine’s almost worn. We’ll have to ask Snyde to get new ones.”

“That’s irritating. It’s only been a month. Our family cloak still works, and it’s been _centuries_.”

His hand paused for a half-second. “That’s impossible.”

“It’s true,” Grace insisted. “It’s been in our family for ages, and it’s never stopped working—not even once. Merlin, what I’d give to have it instead of Mercer’s cheap one.”

“Your parents were probably redoing the charms every year.”

She blinked in surprise. “Merlin—you really think so? I hope they taught James, because otherwise that cloak’s going to stop working soon…”

Regulus finished penning down his last word with a flourish and looked up, beaming in Grace’s direction. “Okay, I’m done. Do you want to tell me what you covered now or later?”

This was honestly the toughest question of the night. She was tempted to relay what she had gone over with Vance later, because that would mean they would get to snog _now_—but it would also mean that Regulus would be thinking about what all else he had to write down while they were snogging, and that wasn’t very enjoyable.

“We can start now,” she said rather despondently. Regulus straightened his quill in his hands. “The only information I had on my end was that Snyde wasn’t making much progress with Crouch’s son. Vance wasn’t very interested in that, though.”

“Neither was Dumbledore.” He rolled his quill between his fingers in thought. “I suppose he thinks there’s no point in worrying about it since Crouch’s son is at Hogwarts and all. But I’m worried that if Snyde doesn’t make any progress and Crouch’s son stops being seen as a viable option to get rid of Crouch, then You-Know-Who is going to take some drastic measure.”

“Yeah… Not to mention, Vance managed to out some of You-Know-Who’s spies in the Ministry, and Crouch isn’t even bothering with trials anymore. You-Know-Who’s probably angling to get rid of him by any means possible at this point.”

Regulus’s brows furrowed with concern. “Right—but we don’t know exactly what he might do.”

“Snyde might,” Grace pointed out. “He’s been reporting to Lestrange.”

Regulus let out a low groan of annoyance. “Merlin… I’m going to have to chat with him after Quidditch practice, aren’t I?”

“At least you don’t have to listen to Myrcella’s ‘revolutionary’ thoughts about how the Minister is a bumbling fool.”

“Fair,” Regulus said. His quill hovered over paper. “Did Vance have anything to say to you, or did you just talk about Snyde?”

“No, Vance mentioned some stuff. We talked about Greyback a bit. Apparently, You-Know-Who’s convinced Greyback to join him. The Order’s sent someone to infiltrate his lot so they know what he’s up to—but I’m not allowed to reveal that, obviously. If You-Know-Who asks about Greyback moving forward, I’m only allowed to say that Greyback is absolutely devoted to the cause.”

Regulus’s scribbling came to a halt. He glanced up at her. “Is he actually fully devoted?”

“I think so. Based on what Vance said about their spy, he seems to be.”

“Salazar…” he said, resuming his writing. “As if it wasn’t bad enough that he had more than two dozen dark witches and wizards at his beck and call—now he’s got werewolves, too.”

“Funnily enough, Vance said the same thing.”

He snorted. “Anything else?”

“Nothing new. We just recapped the Head Auror ambush. Atkinson is alive and well. His family’s being kept in a safe house under assumed identities. I’m not allowed to tell—_fuck_—!”

She shot up from the bed as a searing pain climbed up her left forearm. She ripped up the sleeve of her robe and saw the Dark Mark sitting against her skin. It was the usual snake and skull, but it seemed much more vibrant now, darker than usual, the black ink shifting and rippling over her skin. The snake traveled into the skull, burning across her skin as it did so.

“What?” Regulus said, alarmed. He’d dropped his quill and was making his way towards her. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

“Is—is _your_ Mark burning?”

His right hand rubbed at his left forearm absently. “No—is yours?”

“Yeah,” she said hoarsely. “That means he’s calling me, right?”

The color bled out of Regulus’s face. His lips were pinched together tightly. “Yeah, it does, but…it can’t _just_ be you…”

“Maybe he wants me to See something for him?”

“Maybe,” he said, but he remained worried all the same.

The lazy and light-hearted atmosphere vanished in an instant. Regulus hurried to cap his inkpot and shoved all his materials into his knapsack. Grace took her invisibility cloak and tarot cards, and the two hurried over to Vance’s office. Luckily, she was still up, cleaning up the mess she and Grace had made earlier while dueling.

“You two should definitely not be seen together after hours,” Vance commented dryly as the duo hurried inside.

“It was an emergency,” Grace explained quickly. She thrust her forearm out and lifted the hem of her sleeve. The burning pain had receded into something less intense. It was more like a prickle climbing over her arm now. “He’s calling for me. You-Know-Who. Not Regulus—just me.”

Vance dashed behind her desk. The rubble she had been levitating dropped to the floor with a resounding thud. She rummaged through her drawers for something, finally pulling out a tube of lipstick.

“I doubt he suspects you of anything,” Vance said busily. “I was thorough in making sure any of the information given to Crouch wasn’t linked back to me—which means it hasn’t been linked back to _you_. The more likely explanation for this is that Voldemort requires some divinatory advice. With your information and the Order’s cooperation, we’ve managed to throw a wrench into his latest plans. He might be rethinking his strategy.”

Grace was nodding along vigorously. “That makes sense.”

“If he asks why his spies have been found out, what will you say?”

“They acted suspiciously, which their colleagues took note of,” she recited. “Rookwood didn’t hide his Dark Mark properly. Mulciber was hiding case files related to other Death Eaters.”

“Good,” Vance said. She was bent over her desk, muttering spells over her lipstick. “If he asks why the ambush on Atkinson failed, what will you say?”

“Death Eaters were poorly organized, allowing Order members to overwhelm them. Atkinson had a direct Floo connection to the Auror Office, which Aurors used to get to his house.”

“Good. If he asks where Atkinson and his family are now, what will you say?”

“Atkinson is living in a temporary room in the Auror Office. His family has fled the country.”

“Good.” Vance pocketed her wand and dashed forward. “Time is of the essence, so I won’t question you on anymore—unless there’s something you’re particularly doubtful of?”

Grace thought back to her previous sessions, trying to recall if there was anything Vance hadn’t been very clear about. “Er…”

“Do you want to take a look at my notebook?” Regulus offered.

Vance threw him a sharp glance. “What notebook?”

“It’s nothing,” Grace said immediately. If Vance found out about the notebook, she would almost definitely chuck it into the fireplace—and Regulus would probably burst into tears at the sight. “I don’t have any doubts.”

Vance nodded in approval. “All right, then you’re set. You’ll need this, of course.”

She opened her hand towards Grace. Resting in her palm was the silver tube of lipstick. Grace squinted at it.

“No offense, but I don’t think lipstick will be any good against You-Know-Who,” she joked weakly.

Vance gave her an unimpressed look. “It’s a Portkey.”

“That makes more sense.”

“The Ministry provided it to me so that I could teleport out of Hogwarts. It’s keyed into my touch, but I’ve redone it so that it’ll work for you. Hold it and say ‘Hogsmeade,’ and it will take you to a little area beyond the Shrieking Shack. Say ‘Office,’ and it will take you back here. Now, you _cannot_ use this in the presence of the other Death Eaters. Portkeys are only authorized under the Ministry, and they will be suspicious if they see you use it. You must Apparate from Hogsmeade to Malfoy Manor, and then back to Hogsmeade after it’s over. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

Vance handed over the tube. Grace held it tightly in her palm. Her eyes glanced over Vance, and then to Regulus, who was looking a little green now.

“I’ll be back soon,” she told him quietly.

He nodded stiffly. “I’ll be waiting.”

“Good luck, Potter,” Vance said, watching her expectantly.

“Thanks,” she croaked out.

Her heart was thundering against her chest. She had never been more prepared for this. She had never been more knowledgeable, more supported. She thought she ought to feel less anxious than this, but she didn’t. Worry clouded over her. Distantly, her mind flashed to that first meeting, the shadows of the room, the pain of the Cruciatus as it splintered her body.

Her hand tightened around the lipstick. “Hogsmeade.”

The magic of the Portkey tugged at her, pulling her into a whirl of atmosphere and pressure. In a matter of seconds, she was gone.

* * *

She arrived in the undergrowth surrounding the Shrieking Shack, heaped amongst the shrubs and bramble. She rose shakily, dusting a few stray leaves off herself and fixing her flurried hair. She slipped Vance’s tube of lipstick into her pocket and took a deep breath before Apparating directly to Malfoy Manor.

She appeared on the dirt path leading to the front door. The manor glowed under the serene moonlight. To her surprise, she was not the only one making her way to the house. There were other Death Eaters ambling and grumbling along. She recognized most of them from the last meeting she had attended. She could see Rabastan Lestrange, who was walking alongside a few others, clearly now. He was tall and heavyset, with a broad face and dark, close-cropped hair. He had given something of an arrogant air at the previous meeting, an impression that, even amongst the various pure-bloods and high-ranking Ministry officials masquerading as Death Eaters, he was better. But tonight that haughty aspect was nowhere to be seen. Just like Grace, he seemed to be unnerved by the sudden meeting. Others were, too. A thick atmosphere of worry and confusion hung over the lawn of the manor.

Grace blended into the crowd easily. She wrapped her cloak tight around herself and kept her head low as she rushed through the twisting hallways. She was ushered into the same meeting room, a spacious area with a dark oblong table in the center. A few candles flickered in the far corners of the room, providing a weak light that did almost nothing to combat the dark of the night. At the head of the table was You-Know-Who, pale and still as a snowdrop. Death Eaters bowed their heads in reverence as they caught sight of him and hurried to find a seat at the table.

Grace skirted along the edge. She was having a hard time keeping her hands still; her fingers knotted into each other nervously. If this was not some private consultation about the future, what could it be? As she traveled along the length of the table, she found an empty seat. The witch beside it, a woman with pasty skin and stringy hair, caught Grace’s eye and gave a chilling smile. Grace decided to move on, hoping to find a Death Eater who wasn’t a raving lunatic to sit beside. Thankfully, she spotted Avery taking a seat further down. She bounded forward and took the chair next to his, shrinking down against it, trying to keep herself as small and unnoticeable as possible. She felt Avery’s gaze land on her for a moment, but he didn’t say a word.

Minutes piled together as more and more Death Eaters filtered in and slowly took their seats. Once it seemed that everyone was here, You-Know-Who glanced at the door leading into the room and, without raising a hand, forced it to close. He looked back to the table. His red eyes dragged across every member sitting with him. He didn’t speak. Silence sunk into the room. It was heavy, stifling. Grace didn’t dare breathe.

“My Lord,” Bellatrix began after a moment, either out of foolish bravery or concern, “it is an honor to be called here tonight—”

He didn’t even glance at her. He continued to survey the room steadily. “I am displeased.”

“My Lord,” Bellatrix tried again, “you have only to name what is troubling you, and we shall—”

“What is troubling me,” he began slowly, “is how incompetent the majority of you are. Macnair and Rowle, you failed your mission to convince Greyback. You proved how sparingly I can depend on you. And what did I do? Did I punish you?”

“N—no, my Lord,” Rowle said.

“No,” he agreed. “I did not. I was fair. I accompanied you and delegated successfully with Greyback. Despite your misgivings, I allowed you to continue to communicate with Greyback on my behalf, and what happened then?”

“My Lord!” Macnair burst. “He is a _savage_ with no respect for—”

In an instant, Macnair’s words were stolen from his mouth. He gaped and griped noiselessly for a moment before sulking and settling back into his seat.

“What happened is that you _failed me_,” You-Know-Who said severely. There was a cold rage roiling off him. “Too many of you have failed me. Dolohov, you attacked Crouch’s Head Auror but were not able to kill him. Carrow, you were told to negotiate with the giants, but now you tell me they will not join us unless we allow them _wands_. Rabastan, you suggested we use Crouch’s son against him, but it appears he may be of no use at all. And, as if this were not disappointing enough, I learn that both Mulciber and Rookwood have been found out. Do you know where they reside now?”

No one said a word.

“Macnair, you were so talkative a moment ago—will you not tell us where my two best spies are now?”

You-Know-Who undid the Silencing spell. Macnair shot Rowle a worried look before reluctantly stuttering out, “A—Azkaban, my Lord.”

“Yes,” he said. “Azkaban. And do you know how they got there, Macnair?”

“I—I do not—”

“What about you, Dolohov? Do you know why Mulciber and Rookwood have been caught?”

Dolohov chose to stay silent. You-Know-Who’s eyes roved past him, settled on Death Eater after Death Eater, probing and brimming with terrible wrath, before finally landing on Grace.

“Potter?” he asked. “What do you have to say about all this? You must have Seen this, after all. You must have Seen their capture.”

“My Lord,” she began desperately, “the future is never truly set. It is sometimes impossible to predict specific events. I could divine why Mulciber and Rookwood were—”

“You could divine the reason _why_ Mulciber and Rookwood were found out,” You-Know-Who said with mounting incredulity, “but not that they were _going to be found out_?”

She winced, unsure of what to say.

“I do not need you to divine _why_ my followers have failed so profoundly. I need you to divine _when_ they will fail, so that I may stop them. Do you understand this?”

“Y—yes, of course, my—”

“Do it now.”

She stared at him helplessly. “Do…?”

“Divine when I will be failed next. Divine who it will be that fails me. Divine the cause and the aftermath. Do it now.”

Grace pulled her tarot cards from her pocket. She almost wanted to laugh at her luck. Of course—_of bloody course_—he wouldn’t ask about Greyback or Atkinson or anything she had actually covered with Vance. The best she could do now was consult her cards and give him some diluted version of the truth, specific enough to tide him but still too vague for any direct action to take place.

Just as she passed the cards between her hands, You-Know-Who let out a stark, chilling laugh. Bellatrix joined in immediately, her own shrill, mocking laughter intermingling with his. Other Death Eaters let out a few hesitant chuckles of their own. Grace glanced over the room, at a loss.

“I should have known _you_ would fail me next,” You-Know-Who explained once the laughter calmed. There was a ghost of a smile lurking at his lips, but he didn’t seem genuinely humored. He seemed intrigued about what might happen next. He seemed to be aware of something Grace wasn’t, and that fact alone delighted him immensely. “I seem to recall a moment when you proclaimed you had true Sight. Am I remembering this incorrectly, Potter?”

She swallowed thickly. “No, my Lord.”

“So, you _are_ a Seer with true Sight.”

“Yes, my Lord.”

“And you are the protégé of the most famed Seer of our age. Is that right?”

A trickle of dread ran down her spine. “Yes…”

“And yet you require _tarot cards_ to make any definitive assumption of the future, and, from what I recall, even then you fall short.”

“The medium is very—”

“The details do not interest me, Potter. As far as I am concerned, you are here to serve me. If you cannot carry out the task I have given you, then I shall give another. This, I think, is rather fair. If you cannot be used for Seeing, then you should make yourself useful in other areas.” He seemed faintly amused. “A pest has found its way into the house. Why don’t you kill it for us?”

A faint furrow appeared between Grace’s brows. “What sort of pest?”

You-Know-Who’s gaze left her and settled on a nearby wizard. “Lucius, I believe it is time our guest joined us.”

A blond-haired man sitting beside Bellatix raised his wand and pointed it up at the ceiling. With one quick slash in the air, a body thudded down from the ceiling. Grace jumped in her chair, the legs screeching back across the floor. She stared at the table with a mixture of horror and shock. Moaning with pain was a badly injured man. Singe marks and bloodstains were scattered across his robes. He had been bound with thick coils of rope, and his head had been covered with a burlap sack. He tried to ease himself up, but another Death Eater shot out a spell, and more rope bound him to the table.

“Lucius very cleverly found an Order member skulking around the property,” You-Know-Who said coolly. “I was going to interrogate him afterward, but I doubt he will reveal anything of value. It would be best if you were to rid us of him now.”

Grace couldn’t tear her eyes away from the man. Her mind was buzzing. Vance had never said Order members were stationed in the vicinity of Malfoy Manor. Perhaps You-Know-Who was lying. Perhaps he was testing her. Perhaps this was some random Muggle he had plucked off the street. Her eyes skimmed over the fallen man, to the only peek of flesh she could really see: his hands. They were raw and blistered, bloody from scratching wildly at the ropes. There was something about the look of them, something about the frenzied clawing, that fighting spirit, that made her wonder…

Could this be James?

“It is a simple spell,” You-Know-Who said, voice silky and serpentine. “You must know it. _Avada Kedavra_. Go ahead.”

But it _couldn’t_ be James. He wouldn’t have allowed himself to be captured. He was quick and clever. He would have managed to get away. He was better than these people. He _had_ to be better than these people.

Her eyes flickered up to meet You-Know-Who’s gaze. His eyes burned into hers. His lips were curved into a cruel smirk. This was more than a test of loyalty. This was more than an opportunity to rid themselves of an enemy. This was a punishment.

Her hands fisted into her pocket, curling tightly around her wand. Her head was ringing. She thought she might vomit. She tried to recall something of use from Vance’s lessons, but it had all been information about Ministry dealings and Order tactics. They had discussed torture and murder at You-Know-Who’s hands on occasion, but Vance had advised Grace to go along with it, to play the part she had to play for the greater good.

But this couldn’t be good. How could something so awful contribute to goodness?

“Kill him.” Each word came out slow and measured. He was losing patience.

She slipped her wand out. Her eyes flashed towards You-Know-Who. One spell, and she could get him. She had seen it before, that flash of green light, the emptying of the eyes, the carefree fall of the body. One spell, and she might be able to get out of this.

But there were more than two dozen Death Eaters in this room.

Her hand trembled. Thoughts sped through her mind at the speed of light. She could touch the Portkey and transport herself back to Hogwarts, but that would mean being found out. That would mean exposing herself and Regulus.

“_Potter_.” It was a warning. It was a command.

She raised her wand at the man. He was thrashing against the table, pleading with a muffled voice. James would never beg. This couldn’t be him. It couldn’t be him, because she didn’t want it to be.

“Avada—” _But it might be._ It might be him. He might have been tricked. He might be pleading for Lily’s life instead of his own. “Ked—kedavra!”

A short spark of green erupted from the end of her wand and promptly fizzled out. The fact that she managed to produce _any_ light at all was so horrifying that she dropped her wand with a jolt. Laughter echoed across the room, rough and callous.

“Perhaps you require practice,” You-Know-Who mused.

“I—I—”

“Pick up your wand.”

She dropped to the floor. What was she supposed to do now? How could she get out of this? You-Know-Who was upset with her because she could not See, not the way he wanted her to. But the twist, of course, was that she _could_. She had Seen flashes of the future before, but they had all been fleeting, too swift and slippery for her to latch onto, too strange and surreal for her to understand or remember.

She spotted her wand by the front leg of Avery’s chair, but she didn’t want to grab it. She didn’t want to use it ever again. Her heart shook against her ribcage. She was afraid for that man up on the table. More than that, she was afraid for herself. She did not know if she could kill him. This was her second chance. You-Know-Who did not think she could See, so he was asking her to kill. But what if… What if she _did_ See something? What if she managed to pull out a prophecy? Would he call this off? Would he be so distracted and pleased he would forget all about that Order member?

Of course, she didn’t know _how_ to See like the Seers of old. She couldn’t sit still and breathe in hallucinogenics like Mopsus until something in her clicked. She had missed the event that naturally acclimated the Inner Eye for others afflicted with Seer’s Snag—and that had been Vablatsky’s fault, because she had closed Grace’s mind off to herself. Vablatsky had taught her Occlumency without her knowledge, and now Grace was beginning to think she would never be able to See unless she forced a fist into her own head and shook her Inner Eye open.

Her eyes widened by a fraction. _Wait a minute…_ Why hadn’t she realized it sooner? If what Vablatsky had taught her—_still the waters of your mind, keep your thoughts calm and clear_—was meant to close her Inner Eye, then the opposite might open it. If Occlumency cut her off from her Inner Eye, then Legilimency might connect her to it.

She grasped at her wand and, while still huddled under the table, pressed the tip of it against her forehead. She had no idea if this would work, if this was even the correct course of action, but if she could bridge the gap between herself and her Inner Eye, if she could induce a prophecy, then she might be able to distract You-Know-Who and his Death Eaters long enough that the Order member could get himself free and escape. And, even if this proved to be an absolute failure, it might knock her unconscious, so she wouldn’t have to be a part of this situation anymore.

Her eyes fluttered to a close. The tip of her wand dug into her skin. In the softest voice, she whispered, “Legilimens.”

The spell worked its way through the surface of her mind. Legilimency was not meant to be performed on its caster; it didn’t make any sense. Grace half-expected that it wouldn’t even work, but it did. It felt vaguely like she was watching herself through a layer of glass. And as she reached further into her mind, more and more layers were added. Deeper and deeper she went, until she could hardly see herself anymore, until whatever lay at the center of her mind was so blurry and distorted it was as if she were seeing nothing at all. Still, she dove deeper, pedaling forward until she reached some strange gap in herself. It was as though she had reached a large chasm between two cliffs. The side she was on was one she was intimately familiar with. She had grown with this side, these feelings and thoughts and memories. The other side, a large expanse of rock jutting out of the darkness, was utterly unfamiliar. Although it was a part of her, too, she had never been there. She had never visited. She had come close many, many times. But she had never thrown herself far enough to actually get there—until now.

She hurtled off the edge, reaching for the other side. She was in two places at once: crouching under a table at Malfoy Manor and falling through a roaring darkness. She felt these two realities acutely, could hear the questioning murmurs of surrounding Death Eaters as she stayed still, could feel the wind whistling all around her as she fell further and faster. Cold air bit into her skin. Her hands stretched out and finally, impossibly, hit the hard plane of this other side of herself. It hurt to collide here. It hurt to be blown into the future. She was dragged into it by some powerful, unrelenting force. She could feel herself losing grip on her senses—sight, sound, and touch wavered in and out, like a signal dying out, like something in her was shifting focus.

She blinked, and the world she knew unraveled.

.

.

.

There was a terrible heat. It rose and ballooned, clinging to Grace. She was still ducked under the table—except there was no longer a table. It was open air, light striking her from a clear sky. She whirled around. This couldn’t be real. She knew it couldn’t because it had only been a second ago that she was at Malfoy Manor, scrambling under the long ebony table for her wand. The world she found herself in now certainly couldn’t be real, but it was. The dirt underneath her hands was real: loose and soft, crumbling through her fingers.

She rose unsteadily. The courtyard she was in was destroyed beyond recognition. Rubble and debris clouded the area. Parapets and turrets had come tumbling down. Distant trees had caught on fire, the smoke and the heat rising ever higher, clouding and smothering all those who were near: witches and wizards, young and old alike, fighting against one another. Jets of red and green light sailed through the air. Hollers and screams filled her ears.

This was a battle. The final battle. The one that would end the war. She didn’t know how she knew it; she simply did. She knew it like she knew every line that crossed her palm. She knew it like she knew every image pressed into her tarot cards. She knew it like she knew her own heart.

.

.

.

_“As the solstice approaches, so, too, does the fate of the Dark Lord’s soul…”_

.

.

.

She blinked, and she was transported—still in the same position, hands hanging limply by her sides, mouth partially agape, but now in a different place. She was in a well-lit, comfortable room. It reminded her of the parlors of Malfoy Manor, but this was far more pleasant. It was crowded with plush chairs and round tables. There was a large, rolling blackboard pulled along one wall with papers and tactical diagrams stuck along its front and back.

This room was meant to hold a large group of people, but now there were only a few. She recognized Dumbledore in an instant, with his long silvery beard and bright blue eyes. He was seated at the head of one of the many small tables, hands steepled together. He seemed rather at a loss. Directly to his left was Vance, dark hair tied back messily, looking similarly let-down. The last person was one Grace didn’t recognize: a grizzled man with a wooden leg hobbling up and down the room. In place of his left eye was a magical prosthetic: large and electric-blue, it whizzed about in its socket.

They were fed up, these three. They were searching for something with no luck. But they would not give up. They would find what they were looking for no matter the cost.

.

.

.

_“What youth hid will not be touched, but what is to be hidden will be plucked…”_

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.

.

The scene changed in an instant, just as Grace was getting her bearings. She was brought to another location—this time a dark and damp cave. Murky, deep grey lake water lapped at the interior of the cave. In the distance was a small island with a golden pedestal, but Grace couldn’t quite make out what it held. She was further back, in a boat with You-Know-Who.

He was dumping bodies into the lake: the dead he had collected from his followers. One by one, they fell into the water. Grace winced at each splash. She was not sure why he needed this many corpses, but she knew what this cave was for. It was a hiding place, one You-Know-Who had picked out with great care and caution, one that he would secure and fortify as well as possible—but it would not matter. It would still be breached.

.

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_“By the bold, the chain shall be stolen…”_

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.

It was still dark, but she could breathe fresh air now. The moon was a slight crescent in the sky, shedding little light over the grassy hillside. Grace climbed up, compelled by some force beyond her, and saw a harried Peter Pettigrew running for his life. He had been hurt very badly. There were scorch marks littered across his tattered robes and an awful gash had been made across his arm. But, still, he ran.

And just beyond the hilltop, much further away, she could make out three cloaked figures. Among the shadows, they seemed little more than specters.

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_“By the loyal, the book shall be torn…”_

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Light flooded her eyes. It was so bright and dazzling that her eyes watered at the sudden change. She rubbed at her face quickly and swung around, finding that she was now inside Gringotts. It was the middle of the day. Goblins were milling about, minding their own business—when, suddenly, they weren’t.

The doors were burst open, and in walked Rodolphus and Bellatrix Lestrange. Many of the goblins behind the counters abandoned their post. Only one unlucky clerk, not fast enough to go on break, remained to take care of the customers.

Bellatrix walked in with a straight back and a steely gaze, thundering into the bank. She seemed less wicked than she usually did; her eyes didn’t shine with their usual cruelty. Instead, they seemed full of determination. She strode in, surging forward with surprising strength and vivacity. Her husband lounged behind, taking his time. Just as the doors were beginning to close behind him, he turned his head back, caught sight of something across the road, and smiled softly.

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_“By the unloved, the cup shall be taken…”_

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She was back at Malfoy Manor—but it wasn’t the same place she had left. She was in a completely different room, a hidden room, the one where she had been initiated into the Death Eater fold. There were only a few people here now, You-Know-Who and a few of his most loyal followers: the Lestranges, Malfoy, Mulciber, and on. They all cowered before him.

Mulciber was trembling at You-Know-Who’s feet. “My Lord, forgive me!” he pleaded. “Mercy—please, my—”

You-Know-Who let out a cry of outrage. He pulled out his wand, a long sliver of yew wood, and pointed it right at Mulciber’s head. “CRUCIO!”

The screams seemed to go on forever. They echoed around the room, earsplitting, bloodcurdling. You-Know-Who did not let up until Mulciber’s voice gave out, cracked clean in half and receded into nothingness. He lifted the spell, then, and allowed Mulciber to slump to the floor, unconscious. He raised his head and gave the others a chilling look.

“Enough of this,” he hissed. “We will take him head-on.”

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_“But the Dark Lord will overcome this…”_

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She was back in the destroyed courtyard. The din of fighting forces surrounded her, growing ever louder. The sun beat down on her heavily—until it didn’t.

She lifted her head and found, to her growing horror, that the sky had been covered by a blanket of thick black. An onslaught of Dementors rippled across the sky, snuffing out the light. Fear wound itself around her heart, digging itself deep inside her. The cries of the fighting wizards and witches faltered and fell, replaced by panicked screams and loud chants of the Patronus charm.

This was the final battle, and You-Know-Who was well prepared.

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_“He will take to the last bastion of opposition…”_

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She was somewhere in the Forbidden Forest. The Death Eaters had set up a temporary camp here. Higher-ranking followers patrolled the area while You-Know-Who rested on a throne of his own conjuration. At his feet was a large snake. It raised its head and reared towards You-Know-Who. He ran a hand along its spine. A peek of a smile appeared at his lips.

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_“And accept what is to be…”_

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The same visions repeated. She was transported back to the blistering heat, debris raining down all around her, curses and spells whizzing past her. Then came that old hardbitten wizard pacing across the parlor floor, wooden leg thudding against the floor. Then back to the cave, splash after splash as corpses hit the water; back to the hillside, Peter Pettigrew huffing and panting as he ran for his life; back to Gringotts, Bellatrix Lestrange lunging forward with little to no restraint; back to the screams, to the Dementors clouding the sky with dark terror, to You-Know-Who and his pet snake.

These scenes twisted all around her, warped into one another, until they seemed to be the only thing that existed. She could feel her voice escaping from her, rasping through a mouth that wasn’t her own. It belonged to something bigger than her, greater than her. It burned through her, that voice, those sights, searing across her lungs and throat.

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“_On the solstice…”_

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It kept going, over and over, the heat and the screams and the rippling black as it overcame the sky. On and on, until it didn’t hold meaning anymore, until it was weightless, just empty sight after empty sight.

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_“The fate of his soul will come to pass…”_

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Her vision became little more than shadow, a deep and echoing darkness with no end.

It swallowed her whole.

* * *

She awoke in a room she did not recognize. She had been laid in a large bed with velvet sheets and silver hangings that had been pulled aside. A low light flared from a hearth across the foot of the bed. The room was decorated with precious trinkets: small marble statues, decorative crystal balls, an elegant timepiece made of twisted gold. To the side of the bed was a lounging chaise. Seated on it was a nonplussed Castor Avery. He had taken off his cloak and was hunched up on the very edge of the chaise, passing some paper-backed cards through his hands. It took Grace a moment to realize those were her tarot cards. Avery must have collected them for her.

She eased herself up and looked to him sharply. “H—”

She broke into an abrupt and immediate barrage of dry coughs. She realized only now how much her throat hurt. It felt as though it had been scraped raw, like she had screamed at the top of her lungs for hours and hours before her voice finally gave out on her.

Avery raised his head. The firelight lit his hair like burnished copper. “There’s a goblet of water on the bedside table.”

She glanced over, and, indeed, there was a jewel-studded goblet with water. She grabbed it and drank greedily, savoring the cool reprieve the water granted as it swam down her aching throat.

As she finished and set the glass aside, Avery rose and handed over not only her deck of tarot cards but her wand as well. “Here you are.”

“Thanks,” she said, slipping both items into her pocket.

She looked up and found Avery studying her intently. The two stared at one another for a moment. There were a great many questions stuck at the base of Grace’s throat, but she didn’t know how to ask any of them. She wanted to know if what she thought had happened had _actually_ just happened. She could remember, still, those visions. They were emblazoned into her mind. Even now, she could feel that heat clustering over her, hear the din of those wizards as they warred, the rubble falling all around them. She had said something, too. She remembered a voice that certainly wasn’t her own tearing itself from her mouth, but she couldn’t recall what it had said.

“How long have you been able to do that?” Avery asked before she could question him. 

“Er—do what?” she said, pretending to play stupid.

Exasperation clouded over his face. “Do what you did in there—pull out a prophecy from thin air.”

All pretense dropped from her face. “That was a _prophecy_? Like—a _real_ one?”

“Salazar,” Avery muttered. “Yes, that was a prophecy. I gather this was a surprise even to yourself?”

She didn’t care to answer that question. “How long has it been? Where am I? Why are you here?”

“You’re—it’s only been about twenty, maybe thirty minutes,” Avery said, looking a bit bewildered by her harried state. “You collapsed, so I took you to one of the manor’s guest rooms.”

“Only thirty?” Grace repeated in wonder. Her fingers skirted over the edge of the velvet sheet. She could feel the fibers brush against her finger, but it didn’t feel any more real than those visions had. “It felt like an eon.”

She felt unusually tired. It was similar to the aftermath of a paroxysm, but none of the tremors or aches were present. She felt perfectly fine, just drained, exhausted. She had only just awoken, but she would have been happy to go back to sleep.

Avery gave her a strange look before shaking his head and gesturing at her. “Come on—we ought to go back to the meeting now that you’re awake. He’ll want to talk to you.”

“Why?” she asked immediately. She hefted herself of the bed and tentatively took a step forward. The press of her heel into the wood felt real, too. “About the prophecy?”

“Possibly,” he shrugged.

“Was he—” she hesitated for a moment, “—was he pleased by it?”

Avery went quiet for a moment. Grace glanced at him worriedly. She ought to know what she’d be entering into.

“I don’t know if he’s pleased or not,” Avery admitted after a moment. “At the beginning, he looked interested. You mentioned him by name, so of course he’d be. And then you went a little further, and he seemed sort of taken aback… And then, well, you mentioned those objects—book and cup and all—and he seemed _angry_—angrier than I’ve ever seen. He looked like he might kill you. Shortly after that, you collapsed, and a sort of stunned silence followed—which was swiftly interrupted by Bellatrix—” he rolled his eyes, “—who took it upon herself to interpret your last few lines as something of a good omen. ‘The Dark Lord will overcome this,’ is what you said, I think. She took it to mean guaranteed victory.”

Grace’s stomach turned. “Does he think so, too?”

“He seemed intrigued by the possibility. I don’t know. I was more concerned by the fact you collapsed onto me.”

“Oh, er, sorry—”

He waved her apology away. “It hardly matters. Honestly, I wanted to get out of the room anyway.”

“Right…”

He was striding forward. Grace followed after him. She had forgotten what she had been trying to accomplish with this stunt, but, at the very least, there would be no more questions about her. She ought to have been happy with just that, but she wasn’t. Avery’s words pricked her. _Something of a good omen._ Had she prophesied You-Know-Who’s victory?

She stalled by the doorway.

Avery glanced at her sharply. “What is it?”

“It’s just…” She shut her eyes furiously. Behind the cavern of dark, she could still make out those echoes of the future. She could see the rubble of the courtyard, feel the chill of the cave, hear the hiss of that snake. “I said he’d overcome all that? I said he’d win?”

“You said he would overcome whatever was in his path, not that he would win.” He squinted at her. “Have you ever heard of Eridanus?”

“Er—no? Is he a friend of yours?”

“He’s been dead for a couple of centuries now, so no. He was a magical theorist and a bit of a skeptic—but a strange one. He didn’t doubt the practice of Divination, but he doubted the people who bought into it. He thought everyone got it wrong, that prophecies weren’t some great scraps of the future that historians and Seers ought to waste all of their time debating about. See, the brunt of famous prophecies are recited during times of upheaval, when the outcome is questionable. Most people think that’s because the prophecies serve as a warning: that they’re trying to prevent the more undesirable outcome. Eridanus didn’t think so. He believed the purpose of a prophecy was to _ensure_ the future. That’s why they’re all so ambiguous and worded trickily—so people will obsess over them, so people will actively try to stop the events in the prophecy from coming to pass and, in doing so, accidentally ensure that they pass.” Avery stopped and sighed. “What I’m trying to say is that… You shouldn’t think too hard on what you said. No one should. You’ll drive yourself mad. What’s meant to pass will come to pass.”

Grace had mostly been allowing Avery to speak without quite listening to him. She would have liked very much to simply forget her visions and her prophecy, but that wasn’t very likely to happen. They were steadfastly stuck in her mind. They were a part of her mind. She could not think of anything without thinking of those visions.

They entered the shadowy hallways of the manor and soon arrived at the door of the meeting room. From just beyond the door, Grace could hear You-Know-Who in mid-speech.

“…have not revealed my plans. For this, I shall reward them. For this, I shall free them. Too many of our ilk have been detained. We will convince the Dementors to join us. We will raze the prison to the ground.”

Death Eaters turned to the door at the sound of it creaking open. Grace walked in, huddled tightly against Avery’s side. You-Know-Who’s speech came to a halt, and his eyes snapped up to meet hers. She ducked her head, looking over to the side, where she saw the Order member slumped against a wall. He had been unmasked, and Grace could see clearly now that this was not James. The man before her had a head of shaggy dark hair, which fell messily over his face, intermingling slightly with the shadow of his beard. Dark splotches of purple and red littered his face. Thick gashes lined his arms, tearing through the flimsy material of his robes. He had been tortured relentlessly in Grace’s absence. She could not be sure if he was still alive. He had been thrown to the floor, crumpled, his head lolling pathetically against his shoulder. The sight should have provoked a more visceral reaction in her, but it didn’t. She saw this man, lying dead, or as near to death as one could possibly be, and she felt immeasurably weary.

“Ah, Potter,” You-Know-Who called when he saw her step out of the shadows and into the drawing room. There was a tinge of pride in his voice, as though he had done the hard work of Seeing instead of her. “Macnair and Dolohov were eager to attend to our guest in your absence, but you may finish him off if you so desire.”

Disbelief leaked into Grace. She took a step back, knocking into Avery’s elbow with her own. How could murder be both a punishment and a reward? “I—I—”

“She’s still weak, my Lord,” Avery interceded smoothly.

You-Know-Who’s lips pursed. His crimson eyes traced over Grace’s slumped form. “Very well,” he said at last. “Macnair?”

It was like the last time she had seen the Killing Curse in action: one quick flash of green, and he was gone. What little life was left had fled, and the body tumbled forward, empty and exhausted. Whoops and hollers filled the air. Grace didn’t feel as though she were entirely there. She followed Avery into the seat beside his and sat down shakily, trying to stamp down those last few tremors. Her throat felt hoarse and torn, as though the prophecy had crawled its way out of there, scraping along her vocal cords. She pressed a hand under the edge of the table, but its weight and solidity did nothing to assure her that this was real. That vision had felt real, too. That heat had been real. She could touch the rubble. She could feel the splash of the lake water.

At the head of the table, You-Know-Who turned his head to the side and let out a low, strangled hiss. Then, as if he’d done anything at all, he returned his attention to his followers and began to finish up the meeting with a few closing remarks. From the foot of his chair, some enormous, hulking creature unwrapped itself and spread out. A snake rose from the shadows and darted forward. Its dark scales glinted under the sparse candlelight. Grace watched, transfixed, as it unhinged its jaw to feast on the corpse.

This was the very same snake from her vision.

* * *

She arrived in Vance’s office just as the grandfather clock struck one.

“Ah,” Vance said, glancing up from her desk. Her feet were kicked onto the edge. She was leaned back in a chair, flipping through an old edition of the _Prophet_. “I was getting a bit concerned—”

“I made a prophecy,” Grace burst, rising from the floor.

She hurried to Vance’s side and tossed over the tube of lipstick. Vance caught it and set it on the table. She dropped her newspaper and rose, brows furrowing as she took in Grace’s distraught expression.

“What do you mean?” Vance asked slowly.

“I—there was someone You-Know-Who wanted me to kill—there was, oh, Merlin—” her wide eyes roved over Vance, “—there was an Order member! They caught an Order member. Found him by the manor or something—I don’t know exactly—and You-Know-Who was displeased and—and—I was trying to figure out how to get out of it all, so I made a prophecy—”

“Slow down, slow down,” Vance interrupted, putting her hands atop Grace’s shoulders to steady her. Her dark eyes bored into Grace’s. “Look, I don’t understand what this is all about. Can you show me?”

“Show…you…?” she repeated weakly.

“Pull out the memory. I’ve got a pocket Pensieve.”

“Er—yeah, okay,” Grace babbled, fishing out her wand. “Yeah, I can do that.”

It would be better, too, for Vance to simply see what had happened. Grace wasn’t entirely sure how to explain herself. She raised the tip of her wand to her temple, took a deep, slow breath, and began to pull the memory from her mind. A thick strand of silver clung to her wand as she moved it away from her forehead.

Vance opened the pocket Pensieve in front of Grace, and she dropped the memory within. It swirled and curled like smoke.

“Go ahead,” Vance said.

Grace leaned forward and stuck the tip of her nose into the small receptacle. In a matter of seconds, she landed in the room she had been in mere moments ago: large and spacious, a long table stretching along the center. She was nearer to the head of the table, where You-Know-Who sat, and could see his snake curled along the legs of his seat. It had been there the whole time.

Vance appeared beside her and straightened her robes. Her eyes, hardset and analytical, swept across the room. Grace could almost see the mental catalogue building in her mind as she took in every face in the room: Macnair, Dolohov, and onward.

“There,” Grace said, pointing at the man groaning on the table. He had only just been dropped. Past Grace was staring at him with a haunted expression hanging over her face, wand clutched tightly in hand. “That’s the Order member. They caught him—” she whirled around and spotted the pale-haired man beside Bellatrix, “—_he_ found him. Lucius.”

Vance strolled towards the man. Just like Grace, she examined his hands. “It’s Benjy Fenwick,” she said quietly. “Ever since you informed us Malfoy Manor was housing Voldemort, we assigned him to tail Lucius Malfoy. He must have gotten too close tonight.”

“Potter,” You-Know-Who ordered.

Past Grace’s hand shook as she recited the spell. “Avada Ked—kedavra!”

The same weak burst of light appeared. The wand was dropped to the floor. Past Grace followed it, scrounging under the table.

“He wanted me to kill him,” Grace explained. It had only been a moment ago. She could still feel the terror of it. “But—but, of course, I couldn’t. I tried to think of what to do. You-Know-Who was upset I didn’t predict Mulciber and Rookwood would be caught, so I thought, maybe, if I predicted something else…”

“I thought you couldn’t See?”

“It’s not that I _can’t_,” Grace said uselessly, “it’s that I _shouldn’t_. That, and… And, well, I didn’t exactly know _how_ to, but then I realized something and…”

Past Grace rose from underneath the table. She didn’t seem herself. Her eyes were glossy, glazed over. Her wand had fallen from her hands, rolling across the floorboards, long forgotten. Avery had clearly realized something wasn’t quite right and had a hand half-out, hesitating, as though he couldn’t quite tell if he was supposed to stop her or not. The others appeared confused; a few were raising their wands. You-Know-Who stopped them.

“This…” Grace began with furrowed brows, “this isn’t right. It changed. Everything changed. I didn’t see any of this. I saw something different: a mountain of rubble, and it was _hot_, and—”

Vance was still pacing through the memory. “The Pensieve doesn’t show what you remember: it shows what _was_. It shows what your mind and body experienced. Somewhere, in your mind, you noted all this, but, in the moment, you could only focus on something else.”

“Right, okay, but how do I show you the other—”

“As the solstice approaches, so, too, does the fate of the Dark Lord’s soul…” Past Grace interrupted. Her voice was not at all what it was supposed to be. It was harsh and hoarse, a rasp that was flung outward with reckless abandon. “What youth hid will not be touched, but what is to be hidden will be plucked… By the bold, the chain shall be stolen… By the loyal, the book shall be torn… By the unloved, the cup shall be taken… But the Dark Lord will overcome this… He will take to the last bastion of opposition and accept what is to be… On the solstice… The fate of his soul will come to pass…”

Grace was watching You-Know-Who carefully and could see the emotions Avery had noted as well: a brief intrigue followed by mounting rage. She could not be certain if he was angry with her or the future. Perhaps it was both.

Past Grace finished and collapsed onto Avery. The memory was consumed by darkness, and, soon, Grace and Vance were standing in the office again.

They both stayed still for a moment. Vance seemed to be going over the prophecy herself, trying to unravel the meaning.

“So,” Grace croaked out, “that’s what happened.”

Vance simply nodded and conjured a small vial. She picked the memory from the pocket Pensieve and dropped it into the vial. Grace looked around the office, feeling overwhelmed and withdrawn all at once. She realized, for the first time, that Regulus was no longer here.

“Where’s Regulus?” she asked once Vance pocketed her vial.

“I sent him away once it hit midnight. He said he’d be in some room.”

“Oh, all right—”

“What happened to Benjy afterward?”

She swallowed thickly. “Oh. Well. I came to sometime later, and when I went back to the room, he was… They killed him. Someone—I think it was Macnair.”

“I see,” Vance murmured. If she was sad to hear this, she certainly didn’t show it. Her face rearranged itself into a careful calm. “And the prophecy… When you say ‘the solstice,’ do you know if it’s winter or—”

“It’s summer,” Grace said immediately. She remembered that heat clinging to her skin. “It’s definitely summer. I could feel it.”

“This summer? Or could it be years from now?”

“I don’t know… I don’t think it’s a long while from now, though. I saw some Death Eaters. They didn’t seem much older.”

“Are there any other details? Anything that might help elucidate the prophecy?”

She thought back to the visions. “There was—oh, there was you, Dumbledore, and someone else—a wizard with a peg leg—in a room surrounded with plans. You were trying to find something, but I dunno what. There was a cave that You-Know-Who was throwing bodies into. Could be his murder cave. And there was Peter Pettigrew—he’s my brother’s mate—and he was running. He seemed to be in trouble. And there were the Lestranges, Bellatrix and Rodolphus. And… And there was just a lot of fighting. A battle. Between Death Eaters and, er, our lot, I suppose. And—_oh_, Dementors! There were Dementors. And You-Know-Who mentioned something later, in the meeting, about getting Dementors on his side and getting rid of a prison. I think he might be planning on breaking his Death Eaters out of Azkaban.”

Vance seemed to have a hard time swallowing all of this information. She gave a jerky nod. “I see… Well, I’d best get this to Dumbledore. It seems there is a lot we must prepare for.”

Vance turned to leave, but Grace stopped her.

“Wait, hold on!” she said. “What do I do next time?”

Vance stopped and glanced back at her. “What do you mean?”

“The next time he asks me to kill someone,” she explained. “What do I do?”

Vance seemed momentarily surprised. Her dark eyes skimmed over Grace. “Next time, Potter,” she said lowly, “you kill them. The cost of your morality was not worth Benjy being tortured for thirty minutes before dying anyway. If you are asked to kill, then kill. It’ll be a more merciful death by your hand than Voldemort’s.”

Grace stiffened. “But—”

“You are not a savior, Potter. You are a _spy_. What does that mean?”

“But what if it were—”

“_What does that mean_?”

She grit her teeth. “It means I stay quiet and look on while my enemy laughs in my face.”

“And, sometimes, you will have to laugh with them. This is war, Potter. There will be casualties. Benjy knew what he was signing up for.” A shadow passed over Vance’s face. “We’ll miss him. Of course we will. We’ll miss him and we’ll mourn him, and—in the morning—we’ll get back up and win for him.”

* * *

It had been a week since that night, since Benjy Fenwick died, since the prophecy. It was mid-afternoon now. Grace was in the Forbidden Forest, shepherding third-year students together as Kettleburn bounced from shrub to shrub excitedly, pointing out various small insects and rodents.

She sat under the shade of a particularly stout, knotted tree, gaze flickering over the horde of third-years lazily. Sophia was chatting pleasantly with a few of her fellow Ravenclaws. Preston and Golightly were daring Green to put a salamander in his mouth.

“Oh!” Kettleburn shouted out, hobbling towards a stray branch. “I think I can spot a bowtruckle up there! Can one of you lot give me a boost?”

“Er—” a thirteen-year-old Gryffindor glanced at his friend, “—I suppose we can try?”

As the students grunted and heaved Kettleburn into the tree, Grace leaned back and let her eyes flutter shut. Although not much had happened this past week, it had certainly not been quiet or peaceful. Vance, for the first time, allowed Grace to use paper to write down every detail of her visions. From what she could gather, this was to be passed on to Dumbledore so he could decipher her prophecy. She had thought Dumbledore might meet with her to discuss what she had Seen in detail, but he did no such thing. According to Regulus, he hadn’t brought it up at all. She supposed Dumbledore thought they needn’t worry about the prophecy—something Regulus agreed with. He didn’t care about the prophecy, just that Grace was the one who gave it. He was worried about what repercussions this might have on her mind. As Vablatsky had written in her journal, opening the Inner Eye for one afflicted with Seer’s Snag could lead to crippling madness. Grace was not unfamiliar with this. She had done her own research on this, after all, and she did not feel particularly insane. She felt perfectly fine—or as fine as anyone could be in her position.

A shrill cry brought her out of her reverie. One of the Gryffindor girls was batting away a strange creature that had ventured out of the depths of the forest. Grace frowned at the sight of it: dark and inky, it strode forward with great leathery wings and a skeletal, reptilian face, nudging the young girl out of the way. She had never seen this animal before.

“My, my!” Kettleburn remarked with surprise, pushing aside the teenagers attempting to boost him up the tree. “It seems we’ve entered Thestral territory! This is absolutely wonderful. I’ve got some raw meat on me somewhere—”

A few students began to clamor to Kettleburn to get some meat. Many others were swinging around the clearing, complaining that they couldn’t see anything at all. More and more Thestrals were emerging from the treeline. They seemed to be traveling in a herd together. One of the younger ones ambled towards Grace, stopping just short of the shade.

“So, that’s what you look like,” Grace murmured. “You’re smaller than I thought.”

The Thestral simply stared at her. Grace summoned a scrap of raw meat from the pile Kettleburn was producing and lifted her hand out towards the creature. It sniffed cautiously before lumbering close and pushing its snout into her palm. With one quick, wet swipe of its tongue, the scrap of meat was gone. The Thestral stepped back, gave Grace one final, solemn stare, and then galloped away to rejoin its brood. The pack straggled amongst the students, some avoiding the young wizards and witches stringently, others softly nudging the children out of the way. They seemed rather calm and quiet, all things considered. Grace had always thought Thestrals would be much more uppity. Death, she thought, could make you paranoid, so wouldn’t the Thestrals be aggressively suspicious? But she knew better now. She had seen death. She had seen that poor Auror fall. She had seen Benjy Fenwick’s body go still. Death was not some loud, earth-shattering moment. It was painfully dull. It happened in one quick moment, and the world spun on in spite of it. Grace had imagined it to be so much more. She had imagined herself at the forefront, fighting and fending off Death Eaters. She had imagined herself saving lives by sneaking information. She had imagined it would be louder than this, something like those brave, shining moments James got at Hogwarts: when he managed to score an extra goal against all odds and the stands cheered and cheered, hundreds of voices shouting so loudly that even the sky seemed to rumble and shake.

But what she had was not anything like that. Her moment had come, and it was dull and worn, a quiet, relentless thing. She wanted it to end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m not sure *when* Voldemort got a hold of Nagini. It might have actually been after he died the first time, but I sort of need Nagini in this, so…she’s here. 
> 
> Also, with the memories/visions sequence last chapter, Dumbledore can see Grace’s memories but cannot see the visions of the future. That’s something only Grace can see. While he’s delving into her mind, there are these brief moments where something lines up and Grace can see a glimpse of the future as it relates to whoever’s going through her head. This is meant to connect Legilimency to Divination, and Grace fully discovers that connection in this chapter!
> 
> Thank you all for kudos and comments!! Truly love reading what you have to say! :)


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